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8ERTRAND  SMITHS 
*<-RES  Of-   BOOKS 
140  PACIFIC  AVENUE 
LONG  BEACH    CALIF. 


THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 


THE  STREET  OF  THE 
TWO  FRIENDS  w.™ 

BY 

F.  BERKELEY  SMITH 

AUTHOR  OF 

"A  VILLAGE  OF  VAGABONDS,"  "THE  REAL  LATIN  QUARTER," 

"THE  LADY  OF  BIG  SHANTY,"  "PARISIANS  OUT-OF-DOORS," 

"IN  LONDON  TOWN,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATIONS   BY   THE   AUTHOR 


GARDEN  CITY        NEW  YORK 

DOUBLED  AY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1912 


Copyright,  1911,  by 
JOHN  ADAMS  THAYER  CORPORATION 

Copyright,  1911,  1912,  by 

AINSLEE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1912,  by 

DOUBLEDAY,   PAGE    &   COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  thai  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian. 


URL 


PREFACE 

POSSIBLY  no  woman  is  so  universally  mis- 
understood and  misjudged  by  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  race  as  the  Latin  woman.  To  the 
English-speaking  peoples  she  is  the  incarnation 
of  all  she  ought  not  to  be.  To  them  the  word 
"Parisienne"  is  synonomous  with  "Advent- 
uress," frou-frous,  and  champagne. 

These  stories  are  out  of  my  own  experiences 
during  the  twenty  years  I  have  lived  in  Paris. 
Ten  of  these  were  during  my  student  days  in 
the  Latin  Quarter,  the  remainder  were  in 
Montmartre  and  beyond. 

In  the  tales  which  follow  I  have  eliminated 
fiction  and  told  the  truth.  It  is  my  purpose  in 
this  volume  to  pay  tribute  to  a  race  among 
whom  I  have  lived,  and  the  sincerity  of  whose 

hearts  is  a  joy  to  remember. 

F.  B.  S. 

8  Rue  des  Deux  Amis, 
Paris,  May,  1912. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Prologue 3 

CHAPTER 

I.     The  Enthusiast 19 

II.     The  Savage 51 

III.  Villa  by  the  Sea 81 

IV.  By  the  Grace  of  Allah      ....  125 
V.     The  Thoroughbred 159 

VI.     Natka 195 

VII.     "Gaby" 231 

VIII.     Undine 261 

IX.     Therese 295 

X.     Straight-Rye  Jones 325 

XI.  "The  Arrangement  of  Monsieur  de 

Courcelles"     .......  349 

XII.     "The  Refugees" 379 


THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 


PROLOGUE 

THE   STUDIO   IN   THE    STREET   OF   THE   TWO 
FRIENDS 

T  SHALL  call  this  street  the  "Rue  des  Deux 
•*•     Amis "  -  the  Street  of  the  Two  Friends  - 
since  the  name  suggests  the  life  of  this  crooked 
byway  halfway  up  Montmartre  better  than  its 
own. 

Its  real  name  is  the  Rue  Frangois  Villemorin, 
which  suggests  nothing  but  a  crabbed  old  sculp- 
tor, who  lived  close  to  a  century  ago  in  the  third 
house  from  the  corner,  a  house  distinguished 
from  the  others  by  an  exquisitely  carved  fagade 


4         THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

and  from  behind  whose  habitually  closed  blinds 
Villemorin  died  a  hermit,  which  is  a  bad  thing 
for  any  one  to  be  while  alive. 

The  little  street  is  now  inhabited  by  idle 
dreamers  to  whom  Paris  seems  couleur  de  rose 
as  long  as  they  have  enough  for  to-morrow's 
food  and  a  little  left  to  dream  on. 

Poor  Pierrot!  Only  last  night  his  anxious 
face  shone  pale  in  the  soft  moonlight  flooding 
the  floor  of  his  garret,  while  he  turned  his 
pockets  inside  out  in  quest  of  a  little  silver  to 
still  the  heart  of  his  landlord. 

Poor  Pierrot !  That  excellent  fellow  might  as 
well  have  counted  upon  finding  a  diamond 
glittering  on  the  bare  floor  beneath  his  narrow 
cot.  His  beloved  Columbine,  the  only  jewel 
in  the  garret,  was  in  tears.  Morning  dawned, 
to  find  her  eyes  still  red  with  weeping,  then 
Fortune  passed  to  slip  three  gold  louis  beneath 
their  pillow.  The  sun  rose  high  to  warm  their 
hearts  —  again  a  merry  Columbine.  Pierrot 
sings  gayly  to  the  swallows  screaming  past  their 
gabled  window  among  the  roofs. 


THE  STUDIO  IN  THE  STREET  5 

Kind  old  Paris!  What  a  good  mother  she 
is:  she  who  does  not  fail  her  children  even  in 
their  darkest  hour,  she  who  knows  so  well  that 
kisses  are  not  nourishing.  Ah!  how  many 
Pierrots  and  Columbines  there  are  in  the  Rue 
des  Deux  Amis. 

Let  me  be  truthful  in  describing  an  ancient 
house  flanking  the  corner  of  the  Rue  des  Deux 
Amis,  since  I  live  there,  and  this  modest  abode 
of  mine,  tucked  beneath  the  roofs  like  the  nest 
of  Pierrot  and  Columbine,  has  much  in  concern 
with  those  whom  Chance  has  led  across  my 
threshold  —  and  often  into  my  heart. 

Let  me  be  truthful,  I  say,  for  the  plain  truth 
needs  no  further  seasoning  of  the  imagination 
from  even  so  enthusiastic  a  dreamer  as  myself. 
And  since  one's  daily  adventures  lead  one,  par- 
bleu !  into  enough  that  could  pass  for  fiction,  and 
is  so  seldom  chronicled  in  truth. 

Is  there  not  enough  romance  and  drama 
lurking  at  one's  elbows  in  the  passing  throng? 
Climb  almost  any  flight  of  stairs  and  knock  at 
almost  any  door  if  you  would  know  more.  Are 


6        THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

there  not  skeletons  in  closets  locked  even  to 
friends?  and  love  affairs  in  garrets  that  need 
not  the  gilded  setting  of  the  novelist  to  enhance 
their  glamour  or  intensify  their  sincerity? 

Love  has  little  to  do  with  environment  —  the 
flame  burns  steadily  in  any  atmosphere.  For- 
tune is  generous  in  her  slices  of  life  —  she  cuts 
the  cake  fairly  and  gives  full  measure  with  an 
open  palm  —  but  to  my  studio  beneath  the  roofs. 

I  cannot  help  feeling  a  certain  reverence  and 
respect  for  the  house  itself  —  it  has  seen  so 
much  and  passed  bravely  through  so  many 
vicissitudes. 

It  began  by  housing  a  prince,  sheltered  an 
erring  countess,  became  the  private  hotel  of  a 
grande  cocotte,  once  a  king's  favourite,  offered 
in  turn  a  secret  meeting  place  to  a  revolutionary 
committee,  and  before  the  dawn  of  the  next 
day  found  itself  back  of  a  barricade  breasting  a 
hell  of  frenzy,  and  up  to  its  roof  in  smoke, 
through  which  roared  a  merciless  fire  of  musket 
balls  and  grapeshot.  Men  and  women  died 
where  they  fell,  some  on  the  winding  stairs,  others 


THE  STUDIO  IN  THE  STREET  7 

on  the  floors  back  of  gaping  windows  choked 
with  barriers  of  furniture  and  bedding,  others 
shrieked  out  their  lives  in  closets  back  of  splin- 
tered doors.  A  red-haired  woman  wearing  a 
three-cornered  hat  with  a  cockade  dropped  her 
musket,  slipped  slowly  over  the  sill  of  a  window 
on  the  third  floor,  and  fell  like  a  sack  on  the 
barricade  beneath  —  shot  through  the  head. 
Blood  soaked  through  the  floors  and  trickled 
from  the  riddled  ceilings.  The  smoke  blown 
back  from  the  windows  half  smothered  a  scene 
indescribable.  It  is  difficult  to  aim  straight 
with  wet  hands.  For  three  days  and  nights 
the  house  held  this  carnage  in  its  entrails,  its 
thick  walls  taking  the  brunt  of  the  onslaught 
without  until  there  was  not  a  space  as  large  as 
a  man's  head  that  did  not  show  a  wound.  Then 
a  young  fellow  with  insane  eyes,  his  gaunt  face 
black  with  powder  grease,  limped  to  the  summit 
of  the  barricade,  waving  a  tattered  shirt  at  the 
end  of  a  pike. 

The  barricade  had  surrendered!  That  night 
the  house  slept  in  darkness  with  its  dead. 

The   Lieutenant   Commander   de    Fontaine- 


8         THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

Senac,  passing  a  little  before  midnight  with  his 
aide,  noticed  in  the  dark  a  dull  glow  of  light 
among  the  debris  of  the  barricade.  It  was  a 
sergeant  lighting  his  pipe  with  an  old-fashioned 
phosphor  match  from  a  bottle.  De  Fontaine- 
Senac  raised  his  head  with  a  jerk  and  glanced 
up  at  the  house.  "They  are  snuffed  out,"  he 
remarked  to  his  aide,  and  strode  on  down  the 
silent  street. 

To-day  there  is  not  a  visible  trace  of  the  night- 
mare through  which  the  brave  old  house  passed. 
Like  many  other  veterans,  it  is  now  at  peace  in 
its  best  clothes,  its  scars  long  ago  hidden  under 
plaster  and  paint. 

My  concierge  —  Madame  Dupuy  —  mops 
clean  the  cobbled  pavement  of  its  generous 
entrance  daily,  which  is  wide  enough  for  a  car- 
riage to  enter,  and  at  whose  farther  end,  close 
to  Madame  Dupuy's  loge,  is  a  glass  door  which 
you  may  neither  open  nor  shut  without  its 
jangling  a  horrid  little  bell,  the  door  closing 
stiffly  with  a  wheeze  of  pain,  as  if  in  protest  at 
being  disturbed. 


THE  STUDIO  IN  THE  STREET  9 

Now  the  builder  who  lives  on  the  first  floor  — 
an  apoplectic  man  with  a  bull  neck  in  two  puffs 
and  a  crease  —  opens  the  door  savagely  with  a 
wrench.  That  good  soul,  Madame  Dupuy, 
almost  invariably  opens  it  with  a  smile,  and  I 
have  known  a  certain  mademoiselle  to  open  it 
with  a  small  gloved  hand,  so  carefully  and  with 
so  much  tactful  haste  that  I  have  often  wondered 
as  I  gazed  down  from  the  top  floor  between  the 
bannisters  and  beheld  the  small  gloved  hand 
ascending,  how  the  little  bell  could  have  been 
brutal  and  indiscreet  enough  to  have  announced 
her  arrival. 

What  an  aggravating  watchdog  the  little  bell 
is.  Yet  without  it  Madame  Dupuy  would  not 
sleep  a  wink  —  she  who  believes  every  detail  of 
every  crime  she  reads  in  her  daily  paper,  and 
exclaims  to  herself  at  the  end  of  each  para- 
graph as  she  readjusts  her  spectacles  and  her 
neat  white  cap: 

"Ah!    Quelle  horreurt" 

On  the  first  floor,  I  have  said,  lives  the 
builder;  the  stairs  from  thence  circle  up  past 
the  doors  of  my  neighbours.  Moreover,  this 


10       THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

ancient  winding  flight  is  waxed,  carpeted  down 
the  middle,  and  kept  spotlessly  clean.  Madame 
Dupuy  sees  to  that  —  the  stairs  are  her  pride. 
Dogs  have  to  be  carried  up  them  in  arms,  all 
except  the  fox  terrier  on  the  second  floor,  whose 
tail  grows  out  of  an  ink  spot  and  who  is  owned 
by  a  heavy  blonde  in  a  pink  wrapper,  who  has 
long  since  retired  from  romance. 

You  can  hear  the  shivery  tinkle  of  the 
fox  terrier's  bell  when  she  opens  her  door. 
He  is  so  nervous  that  he  barely  touches  any- 
thing. 

On  the  third  floor  —  ah !  but  on  the  third 
floor  the  door  is  always  closed.  Twice  I  have 
seen  an  egg  left  on  its  threshold;  now  and  then 
a  narrow  loaf  of  bread  keeping  a  bottle  of  milk 
company  on  the  polished  brass  knob.  Once  I 
saw  a  man  leave  and  again  a  woman  enter;  she 
was  very  pale  and  in  deep  mourning. 

The  third  floor  is  a  mystery. 

On  the  fourth  floor  the  carpet  ceases,  and 
you  pass  the  plain  door  of  a  trim  little  modiste, 
who  has  a  habit  of  forgetting  and  leaving  the 
little  door  ajar,  so  that  I  am  forced  at  times  to 


THE  STUDIO  IN  THE  STREET  11 

catch  a  glimpse  of  her  small,  active  hands  pin- 
ning a  lining  to  a  headless  lady  with  a  faultless 
figure,  or  bidding  her  sweetheart  au  revoir  for 
the  day. 

A  short  flight  now  leads  to  the  top  floor,  paved 
with  red  tiles,  snug  under  the  zinc  roof  with  its 
groups  of  hooded  chimney  pipes.  The  brown 
door  to  the  right  is  my  own. 

It  is  very  modest,  this  top  floor.  The  rest 
of  the  house  seems  to  have  abandoned  it,  leaving 
it  like  a  poor  relation  to  shift  for  itself,  deprived 
of  stair  carpet  and  gas,  the  end  of  its  dark  cor- 
ridor harbouring  a  brass  spigot  in  a  niche,  from 
which  I  draw  water  in  an  earthen  jug.  My  door 
at  the  head  of  the  stairs  opens  into  a  small  low- 
ceiled  room,  which  serves  as  my  studio,  and 
whose  two  windows  locked  by  iron  clasps  look 
down  on  the  gray  walls  of  a  weather-stained 
court  at  the  bottom  of  which  on  fair  days  are 
ranged  like  a  row  of  convalescents,  profiting 
of  its  afternoon  sun,  the  pet  plants  of  Madame 
Dupuy. 

Off  my  studio  across  a  narrow  corridor  is  a 
still  smaller  bedroom,  whose  ceiling  bends  its 


1*      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

back  in  obedience  to  the  slope  of  the  roof,  and 
from  whose  gabled  window  one  can  gaze  down 
on  the  lazy  life  of  the  Rue  des  Deux  Amis. 

A  yard  and  a  hah*  farther,  and  the  little  cor- 
ridor ends  at  the  door  of  a  box  of  a  kitchen 
provided  with  a  hooded  charcoal  range,  and  a 
skylight  big  enough  to  stick  one's  head  out  of 
in  sunny  weather,  and  as  tight  as  the  lid  of  a 
snuff  box  in  storms. 

This  garret  of  mine  beneath  the  roofs  possesses 
a  quiet  charm,  a  personality  wholly  its  own,  an 
intimateness,  for  are  not  its  motley  furnishings 
old  friends  in  themselves?  beginning  if  you  will 
with  the  faded  gold  frame  of  the  mirror  over 
my  studio  fireplace,  whose  glass  is  as  dull  as 
the  eye  of  a  dead  fish,  and  continuing  along  the 
walls  hung  with  remnants  of  damask  and  bro- 
cade, their  most  threadbare  spots  hidden  under 
sketches  from  fellow  painters  or  shadowed  by 
shelves  sagging  with  books,  cracked  pots,  and 
blue  and  apple-green  jars  repeating  the  colour 
now  and  then  of  some  worn  rug  on  the  cracked 
tile  floor,  whose  darkest  spots  may  be  traced 
to  a  squashed  tube  of  charcoal  gray.  There 


THE  STUDIO  IN  THE  STREET  13 

are  quaint  cupboards,  too,  let  into  the  thick 
walls  and  into  which  are  shovelled,  when  in  haste 
to  be  neat,  trash  that  the  kitchen  refuses  to 
conceal,  since  its  own  nooks  and  corners  are 
full  to  overflowing.  Some  day  I  am  going  to 
be  brave  and  throw  away  much  with  a  relentless 
hand;  and  yet  when  I  have  tried,  I  have  failed 
dismally.  No!  No!  One  cannot  throw  away 
one's  old  friends  as  easily  as  that,  not  even  the 
chairs  I  rescued  from  the  second-hand  dealer 
when  on  their  last  legs. 

As  for  the  green  bell  rope  with  its  dusty  tassel 
outside  my  door,  I  have  long  since  cut  it  down. 
It  was  more  nerve-racking  in  its  jangle  than  its 
mate  downstairs;  besides,  what  is  more  fascinat- 
ing than  the  unexpected  rap  —  gentle  raps, 
joyous  raps,  some  timid,  some  insistent,  some 
dear  to  the  heart?  One  never  knows  whose 
dainty  foot  will  reach  the  landing  of  the 
sixth  floor  before  my  garret  door.  Unexpected 
raps  —  how  many  souvenirs  they  recall  —  how 
many  romances  and  adventures  have  they  begun 
within  my  garret  beneath  the  roofs?  Hark! 
A  step  on  the  stairs! 


CHAPTER  ONE 
THE  ENTHUSIAST 


CHAPTER  ONE 

THE    ENTHUSIAST 

f  HAVE  seen  Briston  seasick,  but  never  in  love. 
So,  when  he  climbed  the  spiral  stairs  and 
rapped  at  the  modest  brown  door  of  my  garret 
studio,  beneath  the  roofs  in  the  Rue  des  Deux 
Amis,  was  let  in,  refused  a  cigarette  I  tossed 
him  from  my  easel,  and  announced  he  had 
invited  a  certain  Brazilian  lady  he  had  met  on 
the  steamer  to  luncheon  at  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix. 
Marie,  my  model,  who  was  buttoning  her  boots, 
and  who  understands  a  little  English,  burst  into 
a  fit  of  giggles. 

17 


18      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

Describe  Briston?  Let  me  tell  you  it  is  not 
easy,  since  the  description  must  be  neat  and 
precise  —  like  Briston. 

He  is  a  tall,  thin  young  Englishman,  with 
about  as  much  flesh  on  his  ribs  as  a  fox  terrier; 
a  fellow  with  a  set  purpose  in  his  Parisian  life, 
in  whose  tenacious  pursuit  the  so-called  weaker 
instincts  common  to  man  have  been  stifled. 

Briston  is  a  machine,  as  finely  adjusted  as  the 
high-power  focus  on  his  best  binocular  micro- 
scope, through  which  his  gray,  beadlike  eyes,  set 
close  to  the  bridge  of  his  aristocratic  nose,  have 
been  for  five  years  steadily  engaged  in  research. 

Briston  is  a  fact  —  as  dry  as  the  cross  section 
of  the  spinal  column  of  a  mole,  sliced  on  a 
paraffined  cork  to  a  thousandth  of  an  inch,  and 
hermetically  sealed  from  vulgar  contact  with  the 
outer  world  in  a  drop  of  refined  balsam. 

The  Cafe  de  la  Paix! 

I  looked  at  Briston  in  amazement,  for  we  were 
both  as  poor  as  rats  -  -  almost  as  poor  as 
Marie. 

It  was  evident  from  the  gloomy  hesitancy  in 
his  thin  voice  that  he  already  regretted  his  extrav- 


THE  ENTHUSIAST  19 

agant  invitation  —  half  through  timidity,  partly 
because  he  feared  the  expense. 

Again  Marie  understood. 

Removing  two  hairpins  from  her  saucy  mouth, 
she  looked  up  at  the  victim  naively,  an  expres- 
sion that  changed  to  a  good-hearted  smile  of  pity. 

"Listen,  my  little  one,"  she  said  softly. 

Briston  stiffened  at  the  familiarity. 

"Mais,  voyons,  mon  petit!"  continued  Marie. 
"The  Cafe  de  la  Paix!  You  are  crazy  —  you 
will  go  hungry,  my  poor  friend,  for  the  rest  of 
the  month.  It  is  true  what  I  tell  you.  Ah, 
no!  The  grand  restaurants  are  not  for  you. 
They  are  for  the  imbeciles  with  plenty  of  louis, 
the  princes,  the  'big  vegetables';  those  rich  old 
'pears'  as  bald  as  a  boiled  egg." 

She  paused,  and  laid  aside  her  button-hook 
thoughtfully  on  the  worn  divan. 

"Ah,  zut  alors!"  she  exclaimed.  "It  is  not 
as  difficult  as  all  that.  If  your  Brazilienne  is  a 
good  comrade,  she  will  be  content  with  —  enfin ! 
—  a  little  restaurant  like  the  rest  of  us.  Quoi? 
But  if  she  plays  the  princesse,  beware,  my  old 
one;  you  will  not  have  a  sou  left." 


20       THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

She  let  down  her  soft,  dark  hair  about  her  firm, 
young  shoulders,  and  started  a  braid. 

"Listen!"  she  again  resumed.  ;< There  is 
the  Mouton  d'Or.  One  eats  well  there  for  three 
francs.  It  is  not  too  dear  that,  hein?" 

Briston  seemed  relieved,  though  he  reddened 
with  embarrassment  under  her  frankness. 

"Besides,"  she  added,  "I  know  the  patron  - 
you  will  not  be  robbed.     I  will  tell  him  you  are 
coming  with  your  madame." 

"Mademoiselle,"  corrected  Briston,  who  was 
always  accurate. 

"Madame,"  insisted  Marie. 

"But  she  is  not  married,"  returned  Briston 
with  conviction. 

"It  is  not  polite,"  explained  Marie.  "A  lady 
should  always  be  called  'madame'  whether  she 
is  married  or  not." 

She  rose  and  turned  to  the  dusty  mirror  over 
the  mantel,  whose  dull  glass  served  to  guide  her 
small  hands  in  busily  coiling  and  patting  into 
place  her  three  braids. 

How  neatly  she  does  it,  this  simple  coiffure 
of  hers,  that  begins  at  the  nape  of  her  shapely 


THE  ENTHUSIAST  21 

little  neck,  touches  in  passing  the  tips  of  her 
small,  pink  ears,  and  ends  in  two  twists  and  a 
coil  on  the  top  of  her  pretty  head.  Another 
hairpin  sank  in  place,  and  she  went  to  the 
kitchen,  where  the  glass  was  clearer,  to  dress. 

With  Marie's  final  word  of  advice,  my  studio 
beneath  the  roofs  had  become  silent. 

At  length  Briston  stirred  himself  uneasily, 
and,  with  an  anxious  look  and  some  hesitation, 
finally  blurted  out: 

"I  wish  you'd  come  along,  old  chap  —  er  — 
you  see,  I  don't  know  her  very  well,  and  with 
my  bad  French " 

"Dieu!  He  is  funny!"  I  over  heardMarie 
sigh  from  the  kitchen. 

"Join  you  two  at  luncheon  —  not  much! 
Delighted  to  meet  your  Brazilian  at  any  other 
time,"  I  declared;  "but  I  am  not  as  indiscreet 
as  all  that." 

He  looked  at  me  gravely,  like  a  young  pro- 
fessor weighing  a  pupil's  answer. 

"No,  no!"  I  protested.  "Go  and  have  your 
little  luncheon,  you  two,  and  be  glad  if  the  sun 
shines  and  you  have  enough  in  your  pocket  for 


22       THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

an  excellent  dish  and  a  kind  bottle  of  wine.  It 
will  do  you  good  —  that  'rinses  the  eyes,'  as 
the  French  say.  I've  no  doubt  madame 
is  charming;  a  Brazilian,  eh?  And  beautiful?" 

"Um  —  er  —  yes,"  he  declared  thoughtfully, 
twirling  his  pale,  transparent  fingers  in  a  sun- 
beam. "I  dare  say  you  would  call  her  beauti- 
ful. 'Beautiful'  is  not  exactly  the  word.  She 
possesses,  however,  a  certain  personal  attrac- 
tion; fairly  tall,  dark  hair,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing." 

"Speaks  English?" 

"Brokenly,  with  a  limited  vocabulary,"  con- 
fessed Briston. 

"  Pretty  teeth  ?     Gracious  ?  " 

"Er  —  svelte,  with  excellent  teeth." 

"  Briston,  you're  a  coward ! "  I  laughed.  "  For- 
give me,  but  you  are.  How  in  the  devil  did  this 
fatal  invitation  occur?" 

"Well,  you  see,  old  chap,  I  was  quite  ill  on 
board.  We  did  have  a  wretched  voyage  all  the 
way  over,  rather!  And  she  was  kind  to  me; 
loaned  me  books,  and  salts,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  Do  you  see?" 


THE  ENTHUSIAST  23 

"Oh,  la,  la!"  sighed  Marie. 

"Say  you'll  come!"  he  insisted. 

"I'll  come,"  I  promised,  no  longer  able  to  re- 
sist the  prospect  of  meeting  a  beautiful  Brazilian. 

"Good!"  he  exclaimed,  with  nervous  satis- 
faction, rubbing  together  the  palms  of  his  thin 
hands. 

"What  day?  "I  asked. 

"Thursday,  at  half  after  twelve.  We  are  to 
meet  on  the  cafe  terrace." 

"Ah,  then  you  will  not  bring  madame  with 

you." 

Briston  reddened  slightly.  "She  would  not 
give  me  her  address,"  he  confessed.  "She 
rather  insisted  on  our  meeting  on  the  terrace." 

I  glanced  up  at  Marie,  who  was  now  button- 
ing her  gloves  beside  my  easel,  and  saw  a  faint 
smile  lurking  around  the  corners  of  her  mouth 
that  spelled  "adventuress."  Briston  saw  it, 
too,  but  he  did  not  understand. 

Marie  put  out  her  hand  to  him,  and  he  rose 
and  shook  it  formally. 

"Good  luck,  mon  prince!"  she  said,  picking 
up  her  portemonnaie. 


24      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"Until  to-morrow,  my  child,"  said  I,  as  she 
laid  a  friendly  hand  in  passing  on  my  shoulder, 
and  a  moment  later  closed  my  studio  door  be- 
hind her. 

As  I  listened  to  the  patter  of  her  trim  feet  die 
away  down  the  stairs,  I  saw  a  gleam  of  intense 
relief  enter  Briston's  eyes. 

The  whole  world,  sooner  or  later,  passes  be- 
fore the  Cafe  de  la  Paix.  In  this  slow  current 
of  drifting  humanity,  made  up  of  the  flotsam 
and  jetsam  of  the  universe,  there  is  rarely  a 
type  that  is  not  familiar. 

Past  the  three  rows  of  tables  skirting  the 
sidewalk  of  the  boulevard,  the  innocent  touch 
elbows  with  the  vicious;  the  long  with  the  short. 
Beauty  is  rare;  but  the  Beast  is  omnipresent 
from  morning  until  the  following  gray  dawn. 
It  is  a  human  current  of  idleness  that  moves  in  a 
jargon  of  all  languages.  Rich  and  poor.  Sav- 
age and  savant.  Spendthrift  and  miser.  The 
woman  with  her  transient  prey.  Rarely  does 
one  glance  twice  at  any  of  them.  They  pass 
daily  and  nightly  as  they  passed  before  the 


THE  ENTHUSIAST  25 

aperitifs  of  our  great  uncles,  and  will  continue 
to  pass  before  future  generations  of  boulevardiers. 

I  was  explaining  this  to  Briston  as  I  looked  at 
my  watch,  with  the  firm  conviction  that  mad- 
ame,  being  a  Brazilian,  would  be  naturally 
three  quarters  of  an  hour  late,  if  she  appeared 
at  all.  It  was  not  the  first  time  I  had  waited, 
with  enthusiasm,  on  a  cafe  terrace  for  a  Latin 
lady. 

Amazing!  At  precisely  twelve-thirty  to  the 
minute,  Briston  rose  out  of  his  chair  and  re- 
moved his  hat.  At  the  same  instant  almost  the 
entire  terrace  turned  to  gaze  at  a  woman  ap- 
proaching our  table.  Instinctively  I  drew  a 
quick  breath.  I  was  even  a  little  late  in  rising, 
and  uncovering  my  head,  so  fascinated  and  ab- 
sorbed was  I  in  the  sheer  beauty  of  the  woman. 

If  she  was  an  adventuress,  she  was  of  the 
type  that  could  have  turned  a  crowned  head. 
Never  had  I  seen  so  subtly  modelled,  so  ex- 
quisite a  figure.  There  was  that  classic  fullness 
about  it  which  indicates  a  woman  in  her  prime, 
and  not  past  it.  She  moved  with  such  ease 
that  it  was  catlike,  and  yet  with  a  certain  gra« 


26      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

cious  dignity,  gowned  as  she  was,  this  sunny 
spring  morning,  in  a  clinging  frock  of  gray  pon- 
gee silk,  with  white  polka  dots,  a  parasol  to 
match,  a  becoming  Gainsborough  hat,  with 
white  wings,  and  a  pendant  ruby  at  her  throat. 
She  herself  was  like  a  jewel. 

The  brilliancy  of  her  dark,  Oriental  eyes,  with 
their  curved  lashes,  the  rich  sheen  of  her  in- 
tensely black  hair,  the  pure  oval  of  her  face,  her 
skin  like  dusky  ivory  flushed  w^ith  health,  and 
now  her  frank  smile  as  she  drew  near  us,  dis- 
closing her  faultless  teeth  —  ah,  these  were  only 
details;  but  I  saw  them  at  a  glance. 

"My  deah  boy,"  she  laughed,  as  she  held  out 
her  gloved  hand  to  the  somewhat  flustered  Bris- 
ton;  "you  see  I  not  make  zee  late  like  every 
bod',  isn't  it?" 

"  Mademoiselle  —  er "  Then  checking 

himself :  "  Er  —  Madame  da  Varraguillo,"  stam- 
mered Briston,  by  way  of  introduction. 

"I  feel,  Madame,  more  like  an  indiscreet  in- 
truder than  a  guest,"  I  declared,  with  my  best 
bow. 

"Non!  Non!"   she    exclaimed.     "What    for 


THE  ENTHUSIAST  27 

zee  excuse?  It  is  stupide,  hein  ?  Always  zoze 
stupide  tete-a-tetes;  zoze  stupide  lovaires,  isn't 
it?"  Laughing,  she  took  her  seat  between  us, 
and  started  to  remove  her  gloves.  "We  shall 
be  zee  good  comrades,  is  it  not?  All  three?" 

She  turned  to  me  roguishly,  half  closing  her 
brilliant  eyes  —  the  eyes  of  an  odalisque. 

"He  is  so  quiet,  is  it  not?  Zat  good  Monsieur 
Briston?"  she  said  mischievously,  and  she  pat- 
ted his  thin  hand  in  friendly  apology. 

"Of  course  —  it  is  far  bettaire  —  zee  com- 
rades," she  added,  with  a  weary  little  sigh.  This 
time  she  laid  a  half -gloved  hand  firmly  over  my 
own  —  a  shapely  hand  ringed  to  the  knuckles 
with  emeralds.  It  was  characteristic  of  her 
Brazilian  blood.  There  was  a  touch  of  the 
savage  there  in  her  love  of  jewels  that  I  liked. 

Ah!  Never  had  I  seen  such  eyes!  They 
smiled  at  you  even  when,  for  an  instant,  her 
face  was  in  repose.  Eyes  no  less  seductive  and 
captivating  than  her  voice.  The  simplest 
thing  she  said  was  rendered  with  a  certain  vi- 
brant, tragic  intensity;  wide-eyed  often,  her 
jewelled  hands  now  clenched,  now  darting  with 


28      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

the  rapidity  of  two  dragon-flies  as  she  gestic- 
ulated her  words.  Again,  her  voice  would  rise 
to  a  staccato  —  a  volley  of  words  then,  each  syl- 
lable crisp  and  distinct  as  it  was  freed  from  its 
barrier  of  pearls. 

Strange  to  say,  despite  her  vibrant  intensity 
of  speech  and  gesture,  no  one  at  the  next  table 
would  have  been  disturbed,  for  she  spoke  di- 
rectly to  you,  and  no  farther.  Yet,  again,  her 
voice  would  sink  to  one  of  dreamy  gentleness. 
She  was  seductive  beyond  words. 

As  Briston  motioned  to  the  waiter,  she  raised 
her  hands  in  protest. 

"Non!"  she  said,  with  firmness. 

"A  little  vermouth,  then?"  ventured  Briston, 
who  had  suggested  a  glass  of  porto. 

"NonI    Non!    Non!"  came    in    quick  stac- 
cato, her  rich  voice  rising  in  intensity.     "Not 
zat!"    And    she    measured    the    infinitesimal 
quantity  by  the  pink,  manicured  nail  of  her 
little  finger. 

"  Mon  Dieu!  Zoze  silly  aperitifs  —  zey  are 
what  you  say  —  horrible  for  zee  intestines  —  is 
it  not?  Nevaire  for  me,  even  zee  wine."  Her 


THE  ENTHUSIAST  29 

voice  sank  to  one  of  rich,  dreamy  cadence.  "It 
makes  me  —  what  you  say  in  English,  '  quite 
crazy.' ' 

I  believed  her.  Was  she  not  wine  herself  of 
the  rarest  vintage?  She  reminded  me  of  spark- 
ling Burgundy. 

The  table  we  had  chosen  for  luncheon  was 
tucked  away  in  a  quiet  corner  of  the  restaurant. 
As  we  entered,  the  smug-faced  maitre  d'hotel 
chirped  authoritatively  to  his  assistants,  placed 
a  footstool  himself  beneath  her  feet  —  a  delicate 
attention,  which  left  him  florid  and  short  of 
breath,  for  he  was  overfat  —  and  waited  with 
pad  and  pencil  for  the  order,  while  Briston  ner- 
vously cleared  his  throat  and  scanned  the  menu. 

Marie's  advice  as  to  a  modest  restaurant  now 
came  back  to  us,  I  believe,  simultaneously. 
Briston's  agony  was  of  short  duration,  for  his 
guest  took  the  menu  from  him. 

"We  shall  begin  with  zee  hors  d'ceuvres"  she 
said  quietly.  "Ah,  zey  are  so  good  here.  And 
zen  zey  give  you  enough.  Zoze  many  leetle 
fishes  in  oil  and  zee  rest  —  I  adore  zem." 

"And  then?"  ventured  Briston. 


30      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"Ah,  zen,  my  children,  you  shall  have  zee 
good  chop  and  zee  pommes  de  terres." 

She  turned  to  the  one  in  the  black  apron,  with 
the  ever-ready  corkscrew. 

"Une  bouteille  de  vin  ordinaire"  she  com- 
manded, " et  un  demi  d'Eirian  —  c'est  tout" 

"Bien,  Madame,"  and  the  cellar  man  went  his 
way. 

"But,"  declared  Briston,  "you  will  starve." 

"No,  my  deah  boy,"  she  laughed  softly. 
"It  is  quite  enough  —  all  zat." 

From  that  moment  I  no  longer  doubted  her 
good  heart  or  her  quick  understanding.  Our 
modest  luncheon  went  merrily  under  the  spell 
of  her  fascination;  and  there  we  sat  like  obedient 
children;  I  supremely  happy;  Briston  —  ah, 
well,  Briston  is  a  stone.  And  we  laughed  into 
each  other's  eyes  —  she  and  I  —  while  she  told 
us  of  the  grandeur  of  Rio  de  Janeiro,  and  of  its 
lavish  life,  with  all  the  vibrant  intensity  of  her 
nature. 

"And  when  you  shall  see  zoze  mountains  and 
zee  port,  zen  you  shall  cry  zey  are  so  beautiful," 
she  went  on;  "and  zen  I  go  to  England.  Is  it 


THE  ENTHUSIAST  31 

not  fearful  —  a  whole  winter  in  London  — 
like  what  you  say  'an  exile?'  It  was  horrible!" 
she  exclaimed,  with  a  shiver.  "Zee  fogs  — 
zee  fogs  in  zat  big  hotel  —  in  my  boudoir  —  in 
my  bedroom  —  in  my  clothes.  Oh,  la,  la !  Zen 
I  say  to  Senor  Varraguillo  zat  if  I  stay  longer 
I  die,  and  he  vary  jealous  man,  my  husband." 

Briston  started. 

"I  must  confess  —  that  is,  I  mean  to  say  I 
did  not  know  you  were  married,"  he  ventured 
timidly. 

;' Yes,  my  deah  boy  —  no,  it  is  true  I  not  tell 

you  —  now  I  have  zee  divorce  since  long  time 

-  nevaire  I  go  no  more  to  London  to  freeze." 

"Divorce  is  a  good  thing,"  I  declared,  with 
the  indiscretion  of  youth,  "when  two  people  can- 
not get  along." 

"Of  course,"  she  returned,  in  a  low  voice. 

:<Your  ex-husband  is  in  Paris?"  I  asked,  re- 
membering her  alluding  to  his  jealous  character. 

"No,  my  deah  boy  —  he  is  in  —  zee  colonies. 
He  make  what  you  call  zee  —  zee  bad  affaires. 
It  is  a  pity  to  marry  so  young  —  I  marry  at 
fifteen." 


32      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

We  reached  the  end  of  our  luncheon  only  too 
quick;  Briston  proposing  a  drive  in  the  Bois, 
and  I  tea  at  Armononville  later. 

"  Nonl "  she  protested  quickly.  "  Non  truly." 
There  was  a  mischievous  light  in  her  eyes. 
"Now,  zen,  you  shall  come  wiz  me." 

"Where?"  I  exclaimed,  my  mind  suddenly 
alive;  my  imagination  picturing  the  luxurious 
interior  of  her  private  hotel,  cigarettes  in  her 
boudoir,  with  possibly  a  tame  tiger  dozing  at 
her  feet.  I  had  read  of  such  boudoirs 

Again  her  brilliant  eyes  half  closed  mischiev- 
ously. 

"You  shall  see,"  she  said  simply.  ;< You  shall 
now  come  wiz  me." 

I  no  longer  was  conscious  of  the  Cafe  de  la 
Paix.  Follow  her!  I  would  have  followed  her 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  It  seemed  to  me  I  was 
living  in  a  dream,  intoxicated  under  the  spell  of 
the  most  radiantly  beautiful  woman  it  had  ever 
been  in  my  good  fortune  to  meet.  Evidently  I 
did  not  disguise  the  fact,  for  she  paid  but  little 
attention  to  Briston,  and  I  felt  —  aye,  knew  we 
were  already  good  friends.  Such  is  the  pre- 


THE  ENTHUSIAST  33 

sumption  of  youth.  And  so  we  rose  from  our 
cozy  table,  and  followed  her  as  children  follow 
a  trusty  nurse,  out  into  the  warm  sunlight,  those 
remaining  on  the  terrace  turning  for  a  last  look. 

The  prowling  fiacres  followed  us,  too;  but  she 
stubbornly  refused  them.  Had  I  been  forty,  I 
should  have  scented  danger;  but  at  twenty,  one 
thinks  of  nothing.  Besides,  was  she  not  Bris- 
ton's  friend?  Had  she  not  been  kind  to  him  at 
sea,  and  loaned  him  "books,  and  salts,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing."  Adventuress?  Nonsense! 
She  was  adorable. 

And  so  we  turned  into  the  Place  de  1'Opera, 
and  thence  down  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  where 
there  are  more  jewels  for  sale  than  along  any 
other  mercantile  lane  I  know.  It  is  a  street  up 
and  down  which  doddering  old  beaux  are  led  to 
slaughter  —  a  pearl  necklace  for  a  whispered 
word  —  a  gown  for  a  smile  —  sables  to  appease 
the  petulant. 

I  noticed  Briston  was  getting  nervous.  He 
was  never  meant  for  this  world.  He  still  had, 
I  knew,  a  louis  in  his  pocket,  and  I  had  eight 
francs,  so  what  cared  we? 


34      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"It  is  farzaire  on,"  she  remarked,  and  farther 
on  it  was. 

Before  a  window  she  stopped  abruptly. 

"Are  zey  not  pretty?"  she  declared  naively. 
"Is  it  not  lovely  to  see  such  pretty  lingerie?" 

Indeed  it  was  —  indeed  they  were.  Where 
else  in  the  world  are  they  so  pretty?  What 
luxury  in  lace  and  ribbons!  What  a  billowy 
windowful  of  exquisite  confections!  What 
spider  webbery  for  the  most  fastidious  spun  to 
order ! 

We  left  the  wax  ladies  about  to  retire,  and 
moved  lazily  down  the  street  of  fashion  in  the 
balmy  spring  sunshine,  halting  again  and  again 
before  more  lingerie;  before  glittering  fortunes 
in  diamond  sprays  and  coronets  of  brilliants 
that  are  supposed  to  give  to  the  rich  an  air  of 
royalty. 

Briston  regarded  them  dryly,  with  an  as- 
sumed grin  of  forced  interest.  One  of  those 
peaked  grins  of  interest  that  an  old  maid  might 
be  expected  to  assume  before  the  window  of  a 
gunsmith. 

She  was  so  dear  and  amusing  as  she  explained 


THE  ENTHUSIAST  35 

everything  to  me,  drawing  my  attention  here 
and  there  by  a  friendly  pressure  of  the  arm, 
touching  upon  some  latest  Parisian  scandal  con- 
nected with  a  string  of  pearls,  or  some  colossal 
bill  for  froufrous  contracted  by  a  certain  diva 
who  had  once  been  the  daughter  of  a  concierge, 
and  whose  extravagant  account  had  been  finally 
settled  by  a  duke. 

"Is  it  not  what  you  say  amazing?  Zoze 
women  —  zey  are  nevaire  content  —  zey  love 
nobod'  —  and  zey  fool  zee  whole  world.  Of 
course,  my  deah  boy,  zey  are  not  what  you  call 
zee  good  comrades,  hein?  You  must  nevaire 
believe  zem  —  zoze  stupide  leetle  women  — 
nevaire,"  she  counselled  us. 

And  so  we  crossed  at  the  Place  Vendome,  and 
so  on  all  the  way  back  on  the  other  side  of  the 
gay  street  of  jewels  and  froufrous. 

Briston  had  now  begun  to  glance  nervously 
at  his  watch,  for,  as  he  explained,  he  was  due  at 
a  lecture  at  the  Sorbonne  at  four. 

I  had  grown  strangely  silent,  despite  the  caress 
of  her  eyes  and  her  radiant  good  humour.  I 
had  just  begun  to  realize  that  we  were  nearin& 


36      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

the  end  of  our  promenade,  that  in  a  little  while 
she  would  be  gone,  that  I  might  never,  never  see 
her  again,  for  she,  too,  had  hinted  at  an  en- 
gagement. No,  I  reasoned  vaguely,  she  could 
not  be  as  cruel  as  that,  she  with  her  big,  warm 
heart  —  perhaps  she  would  invite  me  to  tea. 
But  where?  She  had  even  refused  Briston  her 
address.  I  began  to  take  a  violent  dislike  to 
Briston,  and  yet  I  owed  him  much. 

"I —  er  —  I  must  be  going,  I  fear,"  he 
faltered  weakly  as  we  regained  the  corner 
of  the  boulevard,  "or  I  shall  be  late  for  my 
lecture." 

I  turned  to  her  pleadingly. 

"Let  me  take  you  home,"  I  blurted  out. 

She  smiled,  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
with  a  look  of  infinite  tenderness,  shook  her 
head  slowly  in  the  negative. 

"No,  my  deah  boy,  zat  is  quite  impossible. 
You  must  not  make  zee  sad  —  has  it  not  been 
jolly,  our  leetle  fete?  It  has  been  bettaire  zan 
zee  Bois,  hein?"  She  laughed,  and  added, 
bending  close  to  my  ear:  "And  our  leetle  prom- 
enade, so  amusing  to  zee  eyes,  has  cost  notzing. 


THE  ENTHUSIAST  87 

Every  bod'  must  make  zee  leetle  economies  in 
life,  is  it  not?" 

She  bade  Briston  good-bye  with  a  gracious 
word  of  thanks  as  he  took  his  leave  abruptly, 
and  rushed  for  his  omnibus.  It  was  a  relief  to 
me  when  he  was  gone. 

We  were  alone.  That  is,  as  much  as  any  two 
people  can  be  alone  on  the  corner  of  the  crowded 
boulevard.  The  passing  tide  of  sordid  humanity 
did  not  interest  me  now.  They  were  in  the  way. 

"Please,"  I  again  pleaded,  but  she  again 
shook  her  head. 

"I  may  not  see  you  again,  then?" 

"Yes,  my  deah  boy,  when  it  is  possible." 
She  hesitated;  then,  with  a  quick  intake  of  her 
breath,  "Yes,  you  shall  see  me  again  —  when 
it  is  possible." 

I  tore  away  the  back  of  an  envelope,  and 
started  to  write  Ten  Rue  des  Deux  Amis,  but 
my  hand  trembled  so  I  had  to  begin  again. 

To  my  joy,  she  took  it,  crumpled  it  into  a 
tiny  wad,  and,  opening  her  gold  purse,  dropped 
it  within,  and  snapped  shut  the  jewelled  clasp. 

I  was  content. 


38      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"Rue  des  Deux  Amis,"  she  smiled,  "zen  we 
arc  to  be  good  friends."  She  gave  me  her  hand. 
"Au  revoir!"  she  said,  still  smiling.  "  Non,  you 
shall  not  call  a  fiacre;  my  carriage  is  waiting  be- 
yond zee  corner.  Au  revoir,"  she  repeated. 
"Do  not  follow  me  —  I  not  wish  it." 

She  was  gone  in  the  throng.  I  stood  for  a 
moment,  unable  to  do  more  than  gaze  at  the 
vanishing  tips  of  the  white  wings  in  her  hat; 
then  they,  too,  disappeared  in  the  crowd.  Dis- 
consolately I  turned  back  down  the  Rue  de  la 
Paix;  but  the  memory  of  the  windows  was  too 
poignant,  and  I  moved  with  no  definite  direction 
in  my  mind  down  a  side  street.  Something  was 
gripping  painfully  at  my  heart;  a  strange  numb- 
ness had  seized  me.  It  was  long  past  midnight 
when  I  climbed  my  studio  stairs.  I  had  been 
walking  continually,  and  had  not  dined,  neither 
could  I  remember  the  route  I  had  taken  to  re- 
gain my  garret  beneath  the  roofs. 

A  week  passed.  A  whole,  dreary  week 
of  nervous,  anxious  waiting,  during  which 
I  bolted  the  brown  door  at  the  top  of  the 


THE  ENTHUSIAST  39 

stairs  against  every  one  save  Marie,  who  came 
to  pose. 

During  the  dreary  week,  I  made  a  full  con- 
fession to  Marie  apropos  of  the  luncheon.  All 
that  good  little  model  of  mine  could  do  was  to 
sympathize  with  me  from  the  bottom  of  her 
Montmartoise  heart.  Marie  also  gave  me  ad- 
vice. She  told  me  I  should  be  philosophical, 
and  be  content  with  the  pleasant  souvenir  of 
the  day. 

"(Test  la  vie!    Quvi?"     (Such  is  life.) 

Good  little  soul,  she  did  her  best  to  cheer  me 
up,  trying  to  convince  me  that  all  women  were 
alike,  that  in  my  enthusiasm  I  took  them  too 
seriously,  that  it  did  not  pay  to  be  impressionable, 
and  that,  after  all,  love  was  a  question  of  illu- 
sion. 

I  was  glad  often  when  her  day's  posing  was 
done,  and  she  had  gone.  Then  I  could  be  alone 
with  my  memory  and  the  twilight,  and  dream  as 
I  watched  the  swallows  screaming  in  a  game  of 
tag  over  the  chimney  pipes.  I  no  longer  went 
to  the  little  restaurant  around  the  corner  of  the 
Rue  des  Deux  Amis  to  dine.  I  laid  in  a  few 


40      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

provisions.  I  had  a  certain  dread  of  leaving  my 
abode  beneath  the  roofs  lest  a  word  from  her 
might  come  in  my  absence;  lest  she  herself 
might  rap  at  my  door,  as  a  surprise,  and  find 
me  out.  Such  things  have  happened  to  those 
who  have  lost  all  hope. 

As  for  Briston,  I  saw  nothing  of  him;  but  this 
was  not  strange,  as  he  came  rarely  to  the  studio. 
He  had  gone  his  precise  and  methodical  way, 
glad,  no  doubt,  that  the  luncheon  was  over. 
Frankly  I  never  wanted  to  see  him  again.  Thus 
I  suffered,  and  waited  a  whole  month. 

I  knew  that  step  on  the  stairs ;  the  slow  stamp 
of  the  telegraph  boy. 

I  rushed  to  open  the  door. 

"For  me?"  I  called  down  to  him. 

"Oui,  Monsieur" 

"Hurry!"  I  commanded. 

I  leaped  down  and  met  him  halfway,  snatched 
the  blue  pneumatique  from  him,  and  gave  him  a 
franc.  I  might  as  thoughtlessly  have  given 
him  a  gold  louis.  Then,  with  a  hand  that 
trembled  more  than  when  I  had  written  my 
own  address  that  memorable  afternoon,  I  tore 


THE  ENTHUSIAST  41 

open  the  perforated,  glued  edges  of  the  petit 
bleu,  and  read: 

DEAR  FRIEND:  You  see  I  now  keep  my  promise.  Then 
now  you  must  come  —  to-morrow  at  five,  and  we  make 
the  little  talk  and  the  tea,  is  it  not?  PAZITA. 

32,  Rue  Gaston  Lacroix. 

"Pazita!"  What  a  pretty  name!  It  was 
just  the  name  for  her.  I  would  call  her  "Paz," 
and  she  would  laugh  and  not  mind.  Yes  — 
Paz  was  even  prettier.  The  world  seemed 
mine  now. 

I  opened  the  windows  wide  to  let  in  the  sun- 
shine from  the  kind  old  world,  tingling  with  joy 
as  I  read  and  reread  the  note  which  her  own  hand 
had  written,  copying  the  address  lest  anything 
might  happen  to  the  original.  To-morrow 
seemed  an  eternity  away.  A  whole  day  and  a 
night,  and  then  until  five.  And  yet  I  had  waited 
a  month  —  a  whole  month,  hour  by  hour. 

I  could  go  out  now  for  a  long  walk,  and  so  I 
walked  and  walked,  keeping  mostly  to  the  boule- 
vards, teeming  with  happy  people,  bathed  in 
the  warmth  of  this  delicious  spring  morning. 
Everywhere  crept  the  merry  sunshine,  even  in 


42      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

the  most  humble  corners;  all  things  glittered  in 
facets  of  light.  The  lazy  air  was  exhilarating, 
and  as  soft  as  a  caress.  Most  of  that  night  I 
lay  wide  awake,  planning  a  dinner  of  my  own. 

I  had  amassed  my  entire  fortune  on  the  table 
by  my  bed  —  nearly  five  louis !  With  one  hun- 
dred francs  one  can  be  en  fete!  She  would  dine 
with  me,  of  course  —  after  tea.  This  time  it 
would  not  be  a  Briston  luncheon,  it  would  be  a 
real  dinner.  Even  if  I  had  to  lie  to  her  and  tell 
her  one  of  my  uncles  had  died,  that  art  to  me 
had  now  become  an  idle  amusement,  not  a 
necessity.  For  one  evening  I  should  live.  It 
is  less  hard  to  have  nothing  when  one  has  been 
happy.  The  morrow  would  take  care  of  itself. 

At  five  the  next  afternoon  my  heart  beat 
fast  as  I  entered  a  modern  apartment  house  in 
the  Rue  Gaston  Lacroix. 

"Do  not  trouble  yourself,  Madame,"  I  said 
to  the  concierge,  as  she  indicated  the  elevator 
and  the  right  button  for  the  fifth  floor.  "I  will 
walk  up." 

And  I  gained  the  fifth  floor  quicker  than  the 
shaky  little  elevator  could  have  made  it.  Then, 


THE  ENTHUSIAST  43 

panting  for  breath,  I  touched  the  electric  button 
beside  an  imitation  oak  door  with  a  red  doormat, 
and  waited. 

Presently  I  heard  the  soft  tread  of  slippered 
feet  and  the  faint  swish  of  silk.  Something 
began  to  sing  in  my  ears.  The  door  opened 
wide,  and  I  looked  up  into  her  eyes. 

"My  deah  boy!"  she  exclaimed,  clasping  both 
my  hands  in  her  own. 

Had  she  been  beautiful  before,  she  was  at 
that  moment  positively  radiant  in  her  soft  silk 
peignoir,  all  the  glorious  richness  of  her  dark 
hair  revealed. 

''You  see,"  she  laughed,  "I  welcome  you  wiz- 
out  zee  ceremone,  isn't  it?  My  maid  I  send  out. " 

"I  am  so  glad,"  I  exclaimed.  :'You  —  you 
don't  know  how  happy  I  am  —  how  long  it  has 
seemed.  You  were  dear  to  have  asked  me." 

She  still  held  my  hands  firmly,  like  a  good 
comrade. 

"  Now  zen  you  believe  I  keep  my  word  — 
zat  is  not  like  every  bod',  hein?" 

I  felt  an  irrepressible  impulse  to  take  her  in 
my  arms,  but  she  understood  me  like  a  flash, 


44      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

and  held  me  with  one  jewelled  hand,  so  to  speak, 
at  arm's  length. 

"Come  —  now  zen  you  shall  see  my  chateau 
—  my  chateau!" 

She  laughed  heartily,  leading  me  along  the 
narrow  corridor  and  into  a  cozy  salon,  and 
through  it  into  her  boudoir,  a  pretty  little  bou- 
doir, hung  in  old-rose  silk,  with  a  duchesse  table 
covered  with  gold-topped  bottles,  and  here  in 
a  chair  of  old-rose  brocade,  drawn  close  to  her 
lounge,  she  placed  me. 

"And  zat  good  Monsieur  Briston,  how  is  he?" 
she  began.  "Zat  quiet  fellow?  Dear  me,  he 
was  so  sick  on  zee  steamer.  Are  zey  not  fearful, 
zoze  voyages?" 

"I  have  not  seen  him,"  I  confessed,  "since 
our  luncheon.  He  cares  for  nothing  but  his 
work,  you  know,"  I  added,  with  a  beating 
heart. 

"  Of  course,"  she  returned,  sinking  among  the 
lace  cushions  of  the  lounge.  "Well,  zat  is  good. 
Zere  are  so  many  zat  do  notzing;  so  many  zat 
think  of  notzing  but  gambling,  and  zoze  stupide 
leetle  women." 


THE  ENTHUSIAST  45 

"You  can  make  me  very  happy,"  I  returned 
impulsively.     "I  want  you  to  dine  with  me  to- 
night.    You    will,    won't    you?    I  —  I    have 
waited  so  long." 

"Non,  my  deah  boy,"  she  laughed  softly, 
sinking  her  head  back  among  the  cushions. 
"Zat  is  not  possible." 

Then,  seeing  my  look  of  utter  disappoint- 
ment, she  leaned  toward  me,  so  close  that  I  felt 
the  maddening  warmth  of  her  breath. 

"Come,"  she  said  cheerfully.  "Now,  zen, 
I  have  a  bettaire  idea;  it  is  zat  you  dine  wiz 
us  —  just  as  you  are  —  en  famille." 

"With  us?  I  do  — not  understand,"  I 
stammered. 

"Ah,  I  not  tell  you  —  yes,  it  is  quite  true," 
she  laughed. 

"Raoul!"  she  called. 

As  the  resonant  voice  of  a  man  in  answer 
came  through  the  half-closed  portiere,  I  half 
started  from  my  chair. 

A  rapid  sentence  in  Spanish  from  her  lips 
was  answered  in  fluent  French. 

"Pray  present  my  excuses  to  Monsieur  Bris- 


46      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

ton's  friend,"  reached  my  ears,  "and  say  I  shall 
be  dressed  in  a  moment." 

I  was  on  my  feet  now,  gazing  at  the  half- 
closed  portiere  in  astonishment  —  embarrassed 
—  overwhelmed. 

The  next  instant  the  portiere  was  flung 
open  and  there  entered  a  military-looking  young 
fellow  with  a  swarthy  skin. 

"My  husband,  Senor  Pazita,"  she  said  gra- 
ciously. 

Smiling,  he  strode  toward  me,  and  put  forth 
his  hand  in  a  hearty  welcome. 

I  grasped  it. 

We  dined. 

Marie  came  the  next  morning.  She  read  me 
like  a  book.  I  must  have  seemed  very  much 
changed. 

"Eh  bien,  mon  petit,  you  have  seen  your 
Brazilienne,"  she  declared. 

"And  her  husband,"  I  returned. 

"A h,  zut  alors!"  exclaimed  Marie. 

"The  Mouton  d'Or,"  I  ventured.  "Let  us 
dine  there  to-night  —  you  and  I." 


THE  ENTHUSIAST 


47 


"Willingly,  mon  petit.  As  I  told  Monsieur 
Briston,  one  eats  well  there  for  three  francs." 
And  Marie  went  singing  into  the  kitchen. 

C'est  la  vie! 


Senor  Pazita  is  no  more.  Thai  is  to  say  he  is  no  more  the 
husband  of  Madame  da  Varraguillo. 

"  Those  stupide  marriages, "  she  said  to  me  only  the  other 
night  after  her  return  from  St.  Petersburg.  F.  B.  S. 


It  was  Briston  who  tried  his  best  to  discourage  me  about 
going  to  Budapest.  He  told  me  plainly  in  his  thin,  dry 
way  after  dinner  at  Lavenues  that  I  would  never  return 
alive.  That  I  would  be  captured  by  bandits  —  whereas 
Madame  da  Varraguillo  had  more  sense.  She  packed  my 
trunk  —  a  fact  —  and  saw  that  I  received  my  right  change 
to  a  sou,  when  I  bought  my  ticket,  and  thus  I  was  swept 
to  the  borderland  of  the  Orient,  where  I  had  been  before, 
but  I  never  believed  when  I  started  that  I  would  again  meet 
there  my  old  friend  the  Countess  Navieskowska. 

Life  is  strange!  F.  B.  S. 


CHAPTER  TWO 

THE    SAVAGE 

THOUGH  Pest  was  awake  for  the  night,  the 
cafes  choked  with  tobacco  smoke  and  alive 
with  music  of  her  gypsy  bands,  ancient  Buda,  that 
snug,  old  town  across  the  Danube,  was  going  to 
bed,  too  old  for  late  hours. 

But  few  lights  remained  to  designate  her 
taverns  and  her  crooked  hill  streets,  and  these 
now  went  rapidly  out,  one  by  one,  as  if  some  un- 
seen hand  beneath  the  blue  veil  of  moonlight 
was  stealthily  putting  away  Buda's  jewels  for 
the  night.  Standing  firm  above  the  low,  ram* 

51 


52      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

bling  town  strewn  about  its  base,  the  sheer  walls 
and  domed  roofs  of  the  new  Royal  Palace 
gleamed  under  the  full  spring  moon  like  the 
granite  sides  of  a  mountain. 

Upon  the  white  marble  roof  of  a  modern  villa 
in  Pest  overlooking  the  quay  of  the  moonlit 
river,  in  two  wicker  chairs,  drawn  cozily  up  to  a 
coffee  table,  upon  which  a  single  candle  glowed 
under  a  scarlet  shade,  the  young  Countess 
Anna  Navieskowska  and  myself  smoked  in 
silence  —  that  restful  understanding  which  is 
the  right  of  old  friends  —  old  friends,  I  say. 

The  Countess  Navieskowska  possessed  that 
calm,  savage  beauty  peculiar  to  Russian  women 
of  noble  blood,  a  subtle  beauty  which  is  purely 
racial.  You  saw  this  in  her  fine  nose,  in  the 
curve  of  her  delicate  nostrils,  in  the  sensitive, 
expressive  mouth,  cold  almost  to  cruelty  in  re- 
pose, alert,  eager,  and  frank  as  a  child's  when 
she  smiled,  baring  her  exquisite  teeth  —  you 
saw  it,  too,  in  the  ivory  whiteness  of  her  skin,  in 
her  slender,  shapely  hands  with  their  tapering 
fingers. 

She  lay  immovable  in  her  chair,  her  small 


THE  SAVAGE  53 

head  pillowed  deep  among  the  cushions,  the  pure 
oval  of  her  face  framed  by  her  intensely  black 
hair,  which  she  wore  en  bandeaux  half  hiding 
her  temples  and  her  small  ears.  Her  dark, 
brilliant  eyes  were  half  closed  —  her  slim,  sinu- 
ous body  wrapped  snugly  in  a  rug  of  soft,  gray 
fur  shielding  her  bare  neck  from  the  night  breeze, 
her  young  throat  showing  above  the  edge  of  fur 
as  white  as  ivory  in  the  moonlight. 

Had  my  friend  the  Countess  Navieskowska 
remained  in  Moscow  after  her  husband's  exile, 
I  am  certain  she  would  have  lost  her  reason. 
No  woman  ever  loved  her  husband  more  than 
she.  She  idolized  him,  and  fought  with  an  in- 
domitable courage  to  save  him,  even  to  that 
last  agonizing  day  when  all  hope  was  gone,  and 
he  who  had  been  fearless  enough  to  speak  his 
mind  began  his  long  journey  to  Siberia,  a  poli- 
tical prisoner.  Far  better  had  they  shot  him, 
as  they  intended  —  far  better! 

Thus  had  the  countess  come  to  Budapest  with 
her  sorrow.  Here  she  could  live  quietly,  sur- 
rounded by  her  many  Hungarian  friends,  whose 
duty  it  was,  like  my  own,  to  cheer  her  brave, 


.54      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

young  heart,  to  help  her  forget,  to  amuse  her, 
for  she  was  much  beloved. 

Now  and  then,  as  I  lay  gazing  up  at  the  great 
vault  of  sapphire  above  us,  powdered  to-night 
with  millions  of  stars,  the  countess  slowly  raised 
her  tapering  fingers  to  her  parted  lips,  and  blew 
through  two  rows  of  pearls  a  little  smoke  from 
the  best  of  Russian  cigarettes,  that  rose  and 
vanished  like  a  whiff  of  incense  in  the  cool  night 
breeze.  Would  that  the  memory  of  him  might 
have  vanished  as  easily  for  the  sake  of  his  poor 
lady! 

Vague  sounds  drifted  up  from  the  Danube 
veiled  in  mist.  The  murmur  of  men's  voices 
from  strange  craft  moored  along  the  quay  out 
of  the  worrying  current,  the  soft,  mocking  laugh- 
ter of  women,  coming  from  no  one  knew  where 
save  from  below  in  the  moonlight,  the  sudden 
whine  and  creak  of  a  rudder  sweep  as  some  high- 
sterned  barge  was  disgorged  from  the  cavernous 
arch  of  a  bridge,  and  proceeded  prudently  in 
the  grip  of  the  silver  tide. 

Again  sounds  that  were  short  and  sharp  as  a 
pistol  shot.  The  dropping  of  an  oar  on  a  passing 


THE  SAVAGE  55 

deck,  the  plunge  of  a  timely  anchor;  then  all 
again  would  be  still  —  so  still  that  the  changing 
breeze  carried  faintly  across  from  the  outskirts 
of  Buda  the  strident  music  of  a  peasants'  dance. 

A  cock  crowed  lustily,  seemingly  from  mid- 
stream. 

The  Countess  Navieskowska  touched  my  hand. 

:<You  are  not  cold,  my  poor  friend?"  she 
asked  dreamily. 

"Cold?"    I    laughed.     "In    this    paradise? 
One  is  warm  with  its  beauty." 

With  that  rapid,  feline  litheness  peculiar  to 
her  race,  she  glided  back  against  the  pillows, 
turning  to  me  with  her  frank  smile,  her  dark  eyes 
illuminated  for  an  instant  by  the  leaping  flame 
of  the  candle  beneath  the  scarlet  shade,  whose 
glow  flushed  with  a  rosy  light  the  curve  of  her 
throat  and  chin. 

'You  have  been  asleep,"  I  ventured. 

"Nearly,"  she  confessed  in  her  low,  cool 
voice,  which  always  seemed  to  me  to  be  stifling 
the  memory  of  tears.  "Yes,  for  a  little  while 
I  slept.  The  moonlight  is  kinder  than  the  dark. 
Now  I  am  quite  awake,"  she  added,  with  a 


56      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

forced  little  laugh.  "Come!  You  shall  tell 
me  —  ah,  yes,  about  your  gypsy  —  your  savage 
with  his  black  fiddle,  the  one  you  promised  I 
should  hear." 

She  turned  upon  her  side,  pillowing  her  cheek 
in  the  palm  of  her  left  hand  —  ringless,  save  for 
its  thin  gold  memory  of  him,  and  I  began  gladly 
under  the  eager  gleam  of  her  eyes,  as  the  candle 
flame  died  in  its  socket. 

"You  shall  hear  my  gypsy  if  I  can  find  him," 
I  declared.  "Banda  Bela  is  the  devil  to  find 
when  you  want  him.  You  see,  being  a  pure- 
blood  gypsy,  he  plays  wherever  his  savage  whim 
pleases  him;  never  in  the  well-known  cafes, 
generally  in  one  of  the  poorest  in  Pest,  and  then 
not  for  long.  He  falls  in  love  too  easily.  A 
pretty  woman  is  as  irresistible  to  him  as  gambling 
or  a  new  suit  of  clothes.  You  can  never  depend 
on  this  thirty-sixth  son  of  the  great  Banda 
Laczi  —  the  most  famous  of  all  the  gypsy  fid- 
dlers that  Hungary  has  known  for  hah*  a  cen- 
tury. Poor  old  Banda  Laczi  died  when  Bela 
was  a  boy. 

"Turn  your  head!     Can  you  see  that  bar- 


THE  SAVAGE  57 

rack  of  a  building  over  there  close  to  the  church? 
It  is  a  sordid  old  tenement.  It  is  where  nearly 
all  the  gypsy  bands  in  Pest  have  lived  for  genera- 
tions. It  is  there  that  the  great  Banda  Laczi 
died.  He  whose  name  was  a  household  word 
in  the  land  of  the  Magyars.  He  who  played 
before  the  king,  before  princes  and  noblewomen 
at  the  coming-out  parties  of  the  little  prin- 
cesses. 

"Everywhere  that  black  fiddle  of  his  was 
heard.  In  Pest  and  Buda,  in  the  castles  along 
the  Danube,  at  the  great  hunting  and  wedding 
feasts  that  lasted  often  for  days;  as  far  as  the 
snow  peaks  of  the  Tatra  they  summoned  their 
favourite  gypsy,  old  Banda  Laczi,  and  they 
filled  his  servile  hand  with  gold.  It  was  he  who 
knew  how  to  cure  their  sorrows,  put  fresh  cour- 
age in  their  hearts.  Love,  gayety,  and  good- 
fellowship  followed  in  the  wake  of  his  fiddle. 
Ah,  they  loved  him!" 

The  countess  murmured  in  Russian:  "Boze 
moi,  Boze  mol  Bozel  Biedny  moi  loubiemiel" 
Her  voice  full  of  sympathy  as  I  paused  for  a 
whiff  of  my  cigarette.  I  saw  that  she  was  in- 


58      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

terested,  for  she  had  forgotten  her  own.  Pres- 
ently it  dropped  from  her  hand,  and  a  spark 
scurried  toward  the  gutter  of  the  low  balus- 
trade. 

"And  so,  old  Banda  died,"  I  resumed,  "over 
there  in  that  wretched  tenement,  in  a  high-post 
bed,  under  an  embroidered  coverlet,  surrounded 
by  his  wives  and  his  many  children;  his  black 
fiddle  lay  across  his  knees,  a  silver  salver  across 
his  lap;  this  and  the  coverlet  he  had  purchased 
with  the  last  of  his  gold.  With  his  last  strength 
he  sliced  and  partook  of  a  ham  from  the  silver 
salver  to  prove  to  all  the  world  he  was  a  gypsy 
and  not  a  Jew.  He  had  played  before  the  king! 
He  wished  to  die  like  a  prince. 

"So  you  see,  my  dear  Countess,  the  kind  of 
proud  gypsy  stock  Banda  Bela  came  from.  He 
was  the  great  Banda's  favourite  son.  The 
black  fiddle  fell  to  his  lot.  It  is  amazing  that 
Bela  has  not  smashed  its  precious  shell  a  thou- 
sand times  in  his  escapades.  It  was  somewhat 
like  giving  a  wild  man  a  rare  egg  for  safe-keeping. 
Escapades!  Bela  has  had  no  end  of  them." 
I  laughed.  "Do  you  know  that  a  few  years 


THE  SAVAGE  69 

ago  that  devil  of  a  Bela  nearly  kidnapped  the 
wife  of  a  foreign  ambassador?" 

The  countess  opened  her  eyes  wide. 

"I  do  not  wonder  you  are  surprised,"  I  con- 
tinued. "You  who  in  Russia  regard  the  serf 
as  incapable  of  revolt,  even  when  it  is  a  ques- 
tion of  the  heart.  But  what  I  tell  you  is  quite 
true.  He  nearly  kidnapped  the  wife  of  a  foreign 
ambassador!" 

:'That  could  not  have  happened  in  my  coun- 
try," she  said  slowly.  "Your  over-gallant 
gypsy  would  have  been  knouted  to  death."  A 
look  of  pain  came  into  her  dark  eyes  I  had  not 
seen  before.  "Ah!  Those  poor,  dumb  people 
of  ours!"  she  added.  "My  heart  has  ached  for 
them  more  than  once,  my  friend.  I  have  seen 
with  my  own  eyes  such  cruelty  —  ah,  God,  such 
cruelty ! "  Here  she  again  broke  off  into  Russian, 
seeming  to  forget  my  very  presence. 

"Da,  tak  bezchlcrwiechestwo  zestoko!  I  milo- 
cerdie  nie  kogda  nie  znaiet!  Boze  moil"  (Yes! 
Such  inhuman  cruelty,  and  mercy  is  unknown 
to  them!  My  God!) 

For  a  moment  she  was  silent. 


60      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"Kidnapped,"  she  repeated,  rousing  herself 
suddenly  from  her  reverie.  "That  is  funny!" 

She  leaned  nearer,  eager  for  me  to  resume. 

"  It  was  not  so  funny  for  his  excellency,"  I 
declared.  "  He  threatened  to  kill  Bela  on  sight." 

"If  he  could  find  him,"  she  interposed 
naively. 

"Precisely.  Bela  had  vanished.  Not  even 
his  great  friend,  old  Toll  Lajos  —  fat,  contented, 
old  Toll  Lajos,  who  plays  the  clarinet  better 
than  any  other  —  knew  where  he  was  that 
time.  Bela  has  the  strength  of  a  bull,  and  an 
ungovernable  temper.  In  point  of  muscle  he  is 
a  match  for  ten  able-bodied  ambassadors,  but 
he  ran  like  a  thief,  like  all  gypsies;  they  are  great 
cowards.  A  Hungarian  with  a  stick  can  scat- 
ter twenty  of  them  with  guns." 

"And  is  he  good-looking,  your  gypsy?"  she 
asked,  as  fascinated  as  a  child  now  listening  to  a 
new  fairy  tale. 

"Um!  He  reminds  you  a  good  deal  of  a 
clean,  well-fed  brigand.  Stocky,  with  shoulders 
and  arms  like  a  blacksmith,"  I  added,  as  she 
stretched  forth  a  white  arm  toward  a  silver  box 


THE  SAVAGE  61 

of  cigarettes,  and  I  struck  a  match  in  the  moon- 
light. 

"Banda  Bela  is  now,  I  should  judge,  past 
thirty,"  I  continued,  "and  too  lazy  in  his  way  to 
have  learned  any  language  save  his  own  gypsy 
tongue.  Even  his  understanding  of  Magyar  is 
very  limited.  His  gray,  jadelike  eyes  have  that 
peculiar  glitter  in  them  of  a  wolf's,  especially 
when  a  new  air  or  a  pretty  woman  pleases  him. 
There  is  the  touch  of  the  brute,  too,  in  his  short- 
cropped,  black  side  whiskers  and  his  black 
moustache,  which  he  dyes  and  keeps  neatly 
trimmed  over  his  heavy,  determined  jaw.  Add 
to  this  his  swarthy  skin,  and  you  have  Bela, 
all  save  his  smile.  His  smile  is  irresistible." 

"It  is  not  a  very  attractive  picture  you  have 
drawn  of  your  gypsy,"  said  she,  and  I  thought  I 
detected  a  note  of  disappointment  in  her  voice. 

"You  see,  I  am  giving  the  devil  his  due,"  I 
returned,  "and  Bela  is  mostly  devil.  Last  year 
he  fell  in  love,  and  followed  her  to  her  own  camp. 
She  was  sixteen  years  old,  and  the  daughter  of 
the  chief's  favourite  wife,  but  she  left  him  in  a 
week  for  one  of  her  own  tribe.  Once,  Toll 


62      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

Lajos  told  me,  Bela  was  camped  with  some  gyp- 
sies near  Vacz,  and  I  drove  half  a  day  over  the 
wind-swept,  fenceless  country  to  find  him.  We 
were  always  good  friends,  Bela  and  I,  but  I 
learned  from  a  village  where  they  had  played  at 
a  dance  the  night  before,  that  the  camp  had 
stolen  a  pig,  and  had  been  driven  off." 

"Tell  me  more  of  his  love  affairs,"  she  asked 
eagerly. 

"  He  will  tell  you  most  of  them  on  his  fiddle," 
I  replied.  "You  shall  hear  them  if  I  can  find 
him.  I'll  hunt  up  old  Toll  Lajos  to-night;  he 
will  know  where  Bela  is  if  any  one  does." 

Again  she  stretched  forth  her  hand,  this  time 
covering  my  own  with  a  friendly  pressure. 

"You  are  very  good,"  she  said.  "It  is  what 
I  need  —  music  —  the  music  of  your  gypsy." 

"And  when  you  have  heard  that  black  fiddle," 
said  I,  "it  will  have  told  you  better  stories  than 
I.  It  will  tell  you  strange  tales  of  love  and  grim 
legends  of  the  forest.  It  will  have  laughed  and 
cried  to  you.  It  will  have  won  your  heart." 

She  gave  a  little  sigh  of  delight.  Below  us 
the  river  lay  silent  in  its  course,  the  capricious 


THE  SAVAGE  63 

breeze  shirring  its  silver  tide  under  a  paling 
moon. 

"You  will  not  forget  your  promise,"  she  said, 
as  I  rose  to  bid  her  good-night. 

Then  I  summoned  her  maid,  and  took  my 
leave,  and,  late  as  it  was,  started  in  search  of 
Toll  Lajos. 

"Ah!  Banda  Bela!"  he  exclaimed,  as  I 
questioned  him  at  an  early  hour  of  the  morning 
in  a  big  cafe.  "Yes,  yes  —  he  play  now  hi 
Lipot  Cafe.  He  came  now  two  days  already." 
And  smiling,  he  held  up,  in  explanation  of  his 
broken  English,  two  pudgy  brown  fingers  over 
the  wet  mouthpiece  of  his  short  clarinet. 

Pest  the  next  night  lay  glistening  under  a 
thrashing  rain  —  a  downpour  that  flushed  the 
gutters,  and  sent  their  torrents  roaring  into  the 
sewers.  Hurrying  forms,  bent  under  umbrellas, 
struggled  on  in  the  gusts  of  wind,  en  route  to  a 
warm  refuge  in  their  favourite  cafes. 

Officers  in  hooded  night  coats  passed,  sturdy 
peasant  girls,  barelegged  to  the  knees,  splashed 
by,  their  layers  of  petticoats  bobbing  with  their 


64      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

easy  stride.  The  wiry  cab  horses  flashed  by  at 
a  spanking  trot,  some  at  full  gallop,  in  the  down- 
pour. Yet  this  wretched  night  did  not  deter 
the  Countess  Navieskowska. 

A  little  before  ten  we  had  crossed  the  broad 
Andrassy  Ut  in  a  cab,  and  were  clattering  along 
in  a  labyrinth  of  side  streets  toward  the  Cafe 
Lipot.  Finally  our  steaming  horse  stopped 
before  the  door  of  a  small  cafe,  whose  smoke- 
fogged,  curtainless  windows,  flanking  a  dingy 
corner,  resembled  the  tank  of  an  aquarium  filled 
with  watered  milk  made  luminous  within  by  a 
sizzling  arc  light.  Before  the  door  hung  limply 
in  the  rain  a  tattered  poster,  announcing  in  big 
letters: 


BANDA    BELA 

36TH   SON  OF 

BANDA    LACZI 


As  we  entered,  and  I  led  the  countess  down 
the  single  aisle  of  the  crowded  little  cafe,  Bela 
grinned  a  welcome  to  me  over  the  neck  of  the 
black  fiddle. 


THE  SAVAGE  6£ 

The  sudden  appearance  of  this  beautiful 
woman,  the  instant  recognition  that  she  was  a 
lady  and  a  noblewoman,  seemed  to  electrify  the 
band.  There  was  a  glitter  of  savage  delight  in 
Bela's  jadelike  eyes  as  he  smiled  and  nodded  to 
a  vacant  table  close  to  him.  Simultaneously 
the  Czardas  —  that  wild  gypsy  dance  they  were 
playing  —  burst  into  a  quickened  pace. 

I  caught  sight  of  old  Toll  Lajos  as  the  countess 
slipped  into  her  chair  beside  me.  He  had  de- 
serted his  big  cafe  to  play  with  Bela.  He  had 
tried  to  grin  a  welcome  to  me  over  his  short 
clarinet,  but  the  frenzied  speed  of  the  Czardas 
kept  his  swarthy  cheeks  puffed  and  his  pudgy 
fingers  too  busy  with  his  improvised  obligate 
to  do  more  than  nod  his  head  good-humouredly. 

Every  eye  hi  the  room  was  now  on  the  coun- 
tess. 

It  was  a  silent,  respectful  crowd  of  working 
people,  with  not  more  than  a  dozen  women  in  the 
room.  The  men  sitting  over  their  coffee  and 
rat-tail  cigars,  the  collars  of  their  damp  over- 
coats turned  up  despite  the  heat. 

In  the  snarl  and  swing  of  that  wild  Czardas, 


06      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

in  the  intricacies  of  its  amazing  harmonies  and 
speed,  not  a  note  from  the  band  accompanying 
the  black  fiddle  was  a  fraction  of  a  second  late. 
Banda  Bela  swung  them  with  him  where  he 
willed;  now  and  then  he  forced  his  men  with  a 
yell  of  command,  the  black  fiddle  dominating 
them,  its  graceful  neck  lying  in  the  hand  of  its 
master,  a  hand  as  quick  and  pliable  as  a  woman's, 
as  brutal  in  its  massive  strength  as  a  fighter's. 

It  was  a  double  band  of  sixteen  men,  and  its 
two  cymballums  and  two  bass  viols  gave  a  snap 
and  fire  to  the  accompaniment  that  made  one's 
nerves  tingle.  Moreover,  they  played  with  that 
compact  ensemble  that  only  gypsies  can  achieve 
in  their  own  music  —  they  who  cannot  read  a 
written  note  and  who  follow  purely  by  intuition 
and  temperament.  Bela  seemed  to  take  a 
devilish  joy  in  trying  to  lose  his  men  —  by  a 
sudden  change  of  key,  by  a  masterly  speed  that 
quickened  to  a  blur  the  four  slender  hammers 
of  the  alert  cymbalists  as  they  flew  over  the 
maze  of  resonant  strings  of  their  cymballums. 

Woe  to  him  who  did  not  comprehend  or  fal- 
tered! Bela  rapped  the  delinquent  sharply 


THE  SAVAGE  67 

over  the  head  with  his  bow.  Again  he  crouched 
at  the  far  end  of  the  aisle,  and,  with  a  yell, 
rushed  back  at  his  band,  arriving  with  the  top 
note  of  a  crescendo  in  an  unexpected  key. 
Again  he  would  shout  to  them  the  names  of  a 
score  of  Czardas,  and  force  them  to  follow  him 
as  he  mixed  their  order.  Still  again  he  played 
with  six  bows  at  once  gathered  from  his  band, 
and  flung  them  one  by  one  back  to  them,  until 
there  was  none  left  but  his  own  to  continue  the  air. 

I  turned  to  look  at  the  countess.  Her  eyes, 
grown  strangely  brilliant,  were  riveted  on  Bela, 
her  lips  parted,  her  breath  coming  quick. 

"You  are  not  disappointed?"  I  ventured. 

"Ah!  It  is  wonderful  —  wonderful!"  she 
breathed  in  a  voice  scarcely  audible,  without 
turning  her  head. 

The  Czardas  ended  in  three  rapid  vibrant 
chords.  Presently  the  voice  of  a  young  girl 
hovered  over  the  black  fiddle  —  a  low,  tender 
voice,  a  voice  in  which  lurked  together  timidity 
and  fear,  distrust  and  an  aching  heart.  Sud- 
denly it  changed.  The  girl  was  laughing  - 
that  nervous  laugh  of  innocence.  Bela's  eyes 


68      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

were  smiling  straight  into  those  of  the  countess, 
and,  to  my  amazement,  her  eyes  now  gazed  into 
his  own.  The  voice  of  the  girl  became  sweeter, 
braver,  as  it  sang  its  simple  story  —  the  be- 
ginning of  an  old  legend. 

The  countess  leaned  forward,  pressing  her 
lithe  body  against  the  edge  of  the  marble  table. 
She  slipped  me  a  trembling  hand  —  a  hand  upon 
which  her  rings  to-night  were  warmer  than  her 
flesh.  Her  cheeks  were  luminous,  her  dark 
eyes  now  gleamed  like  jewels. 

The  voice  of  the  girl  sang  over  the  ripple  of  a 
forest  brook,  and  now  the  sighing  forest  wind 
rose  from  the  belly  of  the  black  fiddle.  Then 
followed  the  deep,  earnest  voice  of  a  man. 

The  wind  in  the  forest  increased.  Above  it 
rose  the  full,  passionate  voice  of  the  girl  speak- 
ing her  heart  and  mind.  The  voice  of  the  man 
grew  fainter,  then  rose  in  a  last  appeal.  Then 
came  a  gentle  sobbing  —  I  could  hear  the  voice 
of  the  man  disappear  in  the  forest. 

It  was  a  legened  of  unrequited  love.  No  one 
but  Bela  could  play  it;  old  Banda  Laczi  had  told 
it  to  him  on  the  black  fiddle  when  Bela  was  a  boy. 


THE  SAVAGE  69 

With  a  low  cry  of  despair,  the  legend  ended. 
In  the  countess'  eyes  two  tears  welled  beyond 
her  dark  lashes  and  trickled  down  to  the  cor- 
ners of  her  closed  lips.  Painfully  she  drew  a 
quick  breath.  She  raised  her  head.  Bela  came 
forth  and  bowed. 

I  saw  her  gaze  rest  for  a  moment  intently  on 
the  black  fiddle,  which  he  held  firmly  gripped 
by  the  neck.  Then  I  saw  her  slowly  take  in 
every  detail  of  the  man  before  her  —  his  black, 
carefully  brushed  coat,  the  white  silk  handker- 
chief, embroidered  with  a  green  and  red  heart, 
that  drooped  beneath  the  standing  collar,  well 
open  under  his  coarse,  heavy  throat  and  chin. 
She  looked  keenly  up  into  his  eyes  now  as  if 
searching  some  good  in  them  back  of  his  smile 
-the  smile  of  a  good-natured  brigand,  whose 
mind  was  fascinated  by  the  woman  before  him. 
It  was  as  if  a  rose  were  being  closely  observed 
by  a  bandit. 

"Thank  you,"  murmured  the  countess. 

"I  —  kiss  —  the  —  hand,"  he  returned,  with 
a  low  bow  and  the  pride  of  a  conqueror. 

"Egen!    Egen!"   he   exclaimed   excitedly   in 


70 

Hungarian,  putting  forth  his  free  hand  to  me, 
which  I  grasped  heartily  —  a  hand  that,  much 
as  a  Magyar  might  have  admired  for  its  skill,  no 
Magyar  would  have  deigned  to  touch.  The 
band  now  bowed  eagerly,  grinning  like  children. 
So  did  a  little  boy  of  fourteen,  who  played  the 
viola. 

"My  nephew,  Varos,"  explained  Bela  to  me, 
grinning  back  at  the  youngster. 

He  was  a  little  embarrassed  —  this  infant, 
with  his  overgrown  violin,  and  turned  his 
dreamy,  black  eyes  shyly  away,  fearing  he  had 
been  misunderstood.  The  countess  smiled  back 
at  him,  and,  in  his  embarrassment,  he  blushed, 
and  dropped  his  bow,  which  old  Toll  Lajos 
recovered  for  him  under  one  of  the  cymballums. 
The  old  fellow  laughed  so  that  his  small  eyes 
nearly  disappeared  under  his  fat  jowls. 

As  we  left  the  dingy  little  cafe  long  after  mid- 
night, I  realized  that  all  her  good  friends  had 
done  for  the  Countess  Navieskowska  was  noth- 
ing in  comparison  to  what  Banda  Bela  and  his 
black  fiddle  had  accomplished;  they  alone  had 
taken  her  completely  out  of  herself. 


THE  SAVAGE  71 

Even  as  we  drove  back  through  the  rain-swept 
streets,  the  countess  had  not  recovered  from 
their  hypnotic  influence.  I  noticed  she  was  ex- 
tremely nervous,  and  there  still  remained  that  bril- 
liancy in  her  eyes  that  frankly  I  did  not  like.  It 
was  as  if  she  had  taken  a  drug,  and  I  reproached 
myself  more  than  once  as  we  drove  on  that  I 
had  been  fool  enough  to  have  ever  mentioned 
Banda  Bela.  Moreover,  she  was  strangely  silent. 

Indeed,  not  until  we  were  in  sight  of  her  villa 
did  she  open  her  lips. 

"Will  you  grant  me  a  favour?"  she  asked 
abruptly. 

"With  all  my  heart,"  I  replied,  little  knowing 
what  she  desired. 

'Then  invite  your  savage  to  dinner  —  at 
my  villa,  if  you  wish." 

"Banda  Bela!  But  you  do  not  know  what 
you  ask,  my  friend." 

"You  will  do  as  I  wish,"  she  said,  with  a  cer- 
tain calm  decision.  "I  wish  to  hear  him  alone" 
-  she  checked  herself,  fearing  I  might  mis- 
understand -  "that  we  might  hear  him  alone, 
without  his  band." 


72      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"Banda  Bela  as  your  guest  in  your  villa? 
But,  my  dear  Countess,  that  is  impossible. 
Forgive  me,  but  I  know  best." 

"Invite  him  to  your  hotel  then,"  she  returned, 
piqued  by  my  point-blank  refusal. 

"In  Hungary,"  I  explained,  as  calmly  as  I 
could,  "they  do  not  invite  gypsies  to  dinner. 
It  is  unheard  of.  People  would  laugh  at  us. 
The  very  servants  would  smile  in  their  aprons, 
and  gossip  about  it  for  a  year." 

She  turned  sharply,  flashing  her  dark  eyes. 

"Yet  you  gave  Banda  Bela  your  hand!"  she 
exclaimed  hotly. 

I  was  amazed  at  her  attitude.  She,  a  noble- 
woman, defending  a  gypsy,  an  outcast,  a  vaga- 
bond! Had  she  completely  lost  her  reason?  Or 
was  it  only  the  passing  whim  of  a  semi-hysterical 
woman?  I  could  disguise  the  truth  from  her  no 
longer. 

"You  think  me  a  snob,"  I  said. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"I  am  not,  and  you  know  it.  To  invite  that 
savage  to  dinner  in  your  villa  would  be  running 
a  risk  I  do  not  care  to  take  —  two  risks." 


THE  SAVAGE  73 

"The  first?"  she  asked,  in  a  low  voice,  ready 
to  defend. 

"The  first,  my  dear  Countess,  is  that  Bela  is  a 
born  thief,  like  all  gypsies.  You  see  that  my 
reason  is  grave  enough." 

"You  forget  that  my  servant,  Rossinoff,  was 
once  with  the  secret  police  in  Petersburg,"  she 
returned  simply.  "He  is  not  likely  to  loan 
Banda  Bela  the  key  of  my  jewel  box." 

"Granted!"  I  replied.  "My  second  reason, 
however,  is  that  I  would  not  leave  Bela  alone 
with  you  an  instant  should  the  occasion  be  un- 
avoidable." 

She  started. 

"Do  you  suppose  that  serf!"  she  exclaimed. 
"  No !  No ! "  she  laughed,  brightening.  "  There 
is  no  danger  in  that,  I  promise  you.  Come! 
We  shall  invite,  too,  the  little  nephew.  He 
speaks  English,  you  say?" 

"A  little.  He  was  with  Bela's  brother  for  a 
year  in  London,  I  believe." 

"That  is  excellent.  He  shall  act  as  our  inter- 
preter. We  shall  be  a  partie  carree.  Then  it 
will  be  quite  safe." 


74      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

She  clapped  her  gloved  hands  in  her  enthu- 
siasm, while  I  shrugged  my  shoulders,  none  too 
happy  over  the  idea. 

"Very  well,  then,"  I  consented.  "But  not  to 
your  villa.  He  must  never  see  the  inside  of 
your  house.  At  my  hotel  then,  at  seven-thirty 
to-morrow.  Bela  will  be  free,  for  to-morrow 
is  Good  Friday,  and  no  gypsy  plays  a  note  in 
public.  It  must  be  a  fish  dinner,  for  a  gypsy 
to-morrow,  at  least,  pretends  to  be  a  good  Catho- 
lic, and  does  not  touch  meat.  There  will  be  no 
difficulty  in  persuading  Bela  to  accept,"  I  de- 
clared, as  we  stopped  in  front  of  the  gate  of  her 
villa.  "I  shall  see  that  he  brings  both  the  black 
fiddle  and  the  little  nephew.  Banda  Bela  would 
rather  dine  with  you  than  be  thrown  a  hundred 
guldens." 

She  laughed  delicious  ly;  as  happy  as  a  child 
whose  whim  had  been  gratified,  as  I  squeezed 
my  way  out  of  the  musty  cab,  indicated  the 
mud-smeared  step  for  her  slim  foot,  opened 
my  umbrella,  conducted  her  in  a  gentle  rain  to 
her  waiting  maid,  and  bade  her  good-night. 

You  enter  the  Grand  Hotel  Magyar  Salloda 


THE  SAVAGE  75 

by  a  square  hall,  draped  in  magenta  velvet  cur- 
tains. Beyond  this  old-fashioned  entrance  lies 
a  vast  ballroom,  lighted  only  upon  rare  public 
occasions.  At  the  extremity  of  this  cavernous 
room  a  narrow  corridor  leads  in  two  turns  and 
a  discreet  twist  to  a  small  private  dining  room 
without  a  bell. 

It  was  in  this  cabinet  particulier  that  our 
partie  carree  was  dining  on  the  following  night, 
Banda  Bela  facing  his  dreamy,  black-eyed 
little  nephew  Varos.  In  a  carved  armchair,  the 
Countess  Navieskowska,  radiantly  beautiful  in 
a  decollete  gown  of  glittering  steel-blue  scales, 
sat  facing  me.  It  was  a  gown  that  only  a  great 
beauty  could  have  worn.  A  woman  whose  subtle 
lines  were  perfection. 

Banda  Bela  wore  for  the  occasion  a  black 
broadcloth  coat,  a  dress  waistcoat,  revealing  an 
immaculate,  many-plaited  shirt  front,  and  a 
black  cravat  ornamented  beneath  a  standing 
collar  by  an  oval  silver  brooch,  studded  with 
mother-of-pearl  and  turquoise,  evidently  a  gypsy 
heirloom. 

Though  I  well  knew  the  suppressed  amaze- 


78      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

merit  of  the  maltre  d'hotel  and  his  equally  sphinx- 
like  waiters  serving  a  fish  dinner  to  two  gypsies, 
they  concealed  their  astonishment  stoically, 
though  I  could  not  help  catching  sight  of  the 
positive  alarm  in  the  chief  clerk's  eyes  as  I  went 
forward  to  welcome  my  guests  on  their  ar- 
rival. 

Like  his  celebrated  father,  Banda  Bela  had 
been  summoned  to  play  before  a  prince  and 
princess,  yet  never  in  his  whole  life  had  the  great 
Banda  Laczi  been  bidden,  as  his  son  to-night, 
to  dine  with  royalty. 

This,  at  least,  was  what  was  passing  in  Bela's 
mind,  for  it  was  plain  enough  he  took  me  for  a 
nobleman  of  colossal  importance  and  untold 
wealth.  None  but  so  supreme  a  personage  as 
myself  would  have  dared  invite  him.  The  wine, 
the  silver  dishes,  the  roses,  the  shaded  lights,  and 
the  silent  servility  of  the  servants  —  all  con- 
vinced him  of  this.  True,  he  had  heard  of 
America  and  its  millions,  though  America  was 
as  vague  to  him  as  China.  I  was  evidently  the 
Emperor  of  America's  brother,  and  a  multimil- 
lionaire. 


THE  SAVAGE  77 

Banda  Bela  was  in  the  glory  of  his  savage 
pride.  His  smile  to-night  was  keyed  to  one  of 
devilish  content.  In  the  midst  of  this  luxury 
with  the  most  beautiful  and  gracious  woman  he 
had  ever  met  within  arm's  reach  of  him  —  ham- 
pered as  he  was  to  explain  all  he  felt,  he  talked 
incessantly  in  gypsy  which  the  dreamy-eyed 
little  nephew,  waking  up  at  intervals,  like  the 
Dormouse  in  "Alice  in  Wonderland,"  trans- 
lated to  the  best  of  his  infant  ability  to  the 
countess  and  myself  in  his  limited  English. 

At  the  end  of  every  gypsy  sentence  Bela 
drained  his  glass.  Never  had  I  seen  a  man  drink 
as  he  did  and  keep  sober.  Though,  like  the 
martinet  of  an  uncle  he  was,  he  allowed  Varos 
nothing  but  lemonade.  Before  we  had  reached 
the  salad,  the  bottle  of  mellow  Tokay  before 
him  was  empty;  he,  too,  had  drained  the  lion's 
share  of  champagne,  and  I  now  saw  the  surface 
line  of  my  private  bottle  of  Scotch  whiskey  sink 
lower  and  lower  under  his  active  hand. 

Now  and  then  the  Dormouse  would  resume 
his  struggles. 

"My  onk'l  he  say  he  happy,"  explained  the 


78      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

Dormouse  lazily.  "That  he  soon  play  for  the 
beautiful  lady."  And  the  Dormouse  nodded 
sleepily  over  his  third  helping  of  ice  cream  to  the 
black  fiddle  in  its  case  in  the  corner. 

"My  onk'l  he  say  he  honour  with  heart  the 
beauty  of  the  lady.  He  honour  with  whole 
heart  America  and  Russia." 

'''Alien  Magyar  nemset!"  I  returned,  drinking 
Bela's  health  in  Hungarian,  though  it  was  risky, 
for  his  swarthy  jowls  now  had  a  dull  flush  about 
them,  and  the  cords  of  his  bull  neck  stood  out 
like  bronze. 

We  had  now  reached  our  liqueurs.  Bela,  with 
a  hand  as  steady  as  a  surgeon's,  lighted  the 
countess'  cigarette.  She  had  been  graciousness 
itself  throughout  this  strange  dinner;  kind  to 
the  little  nephew,  clever  in  her  repartee,  and 
fearless  in  her  undisguised  admiration  of  the  sav- 
age on  her  right.  She  turned  now,  and  nodded 
pleadingly  to  the  black  fiddle  in  the  corner. 

There  came  from  Bela  a  sharp  command  — 
the  command  of  a  general  about  to  lead  a  charge 
-  and  the  Dormouse  brought  the  black  fiddle 
from  its  case. 


THE  SAVAGE  79 

Standing  close  to  the  countess,  seated  in  her 
chair,  Banda  Bela  began.  The  black  fiddle 
awakened  under  his  massive,  vibrant  hand, 
alive  and  eager  for  the  conquest  as  if  in  league 
with  its  master.  Its  voice  became  insistent  and 
human  as  a  lover's. 

Presently  I  saw  the  countess  weaken  and 
grow  numb  under  its  spell.  Her  white  arms 
lay  listless  in  her  lap.  She  sat  there  as  in 
a  dream,  a  faint  smile  playing  about  the 
corners  of  her  mouth,  her  eyes  half  closed, 
her  head  slightly  bent,  like  a  woman  sure  of 
acquittal. 

Not  for  an  instant  did  Banda  Bela  take  his 
eyes  from  her;  now  and  then  he  bent  his  black 
fiddle  lower  and  nearer,  until  its  voice  spoke  in 
her  ear  —  little  ears  that  burned  and  tingled 
with  a  strange  delight.  Banda  Bela  played  to 
win  her  heart,  and,  by  God,  he  did ! 

I  felt  the  cold  sweat  creep  to  my  forehead,  and 
I  grew  sick  at  heart.  She  was  no  longer  my 
gracious  friend,  but  a  woman  pitifully  drunk 
now  under  the  power  of  sensuality.  The  ner- 
vous tremor  of  her  hands,  her  brilliant,  dilated 


80      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

eyes  staring  vacantly  at  the  smouldering  tip  of 
her  cigarette,  burning  itself  out  in  her  dessert 
plate.  The  catlike  tenseness  of  her  body  sent 
my  heart  to  my  throat. 

"Go  to  bed!"  commanded  Bela,  over  his 
sweeping  bow  to  the  sleepy  nephew,  who  rose 
obediently,  bowed,  and  left  the  room. 

"Out!"  he  thundered  brusquely  in  Hun- 
garian to  the  mattre  d'hotel,  who  had  opened  the 
door  indiscreetly. 

Before  I  could  summon  the  mattre  d'hotel 
back,  to  my  dismay,  he,  too,  disappeared.  Un- 
able to  contain  myself  longer,  I  rose,  and  went 
over  to  the  countess. 

"This  must  end,"  I  said,  now  thoroughly 
alarmed.  "You  will  be  ill." 

She  buried  her  face  deep  in  her  hands,  shak- 
ing her  head  slowly  in  reply. 

"Countess!"  I  exclaimed. 

She  did  not  raise  her  head,  but  broke  into 
hysterical  sobbing. 

"Stop!  Do  you  hear?"  I  cried,  and  put 
forth  my  hand  threateningly  toward  the  black 
fiddle  and  its  master. 


THE  SAVAGE  81 

Bela  slipped  aside  and  grinned,  and  a  great 
dominant  chord  rose  to  mock  me. 

"Do  you  not  see  the  countess  is  ill?"  I  de- 
clared, but  he  paid  no  heed. 

Twice  I  opened  the  door,  and  shouted  for  the 
servants.  The  great  ballroom  beyond  echoed  my 
voice. 

Again  I  went  to  her  side. 

"Anna!"  I  pleaded.     "Listen  to  me." 

She  started  at  the  sound  of  her  name,  then 
raised  her  head  from  her  tear-stained  hands. 

"Play!  Play!  Play!"  she  insisted.  "Play 
to  me!  Oh,  play  to  me!  Play!" 

The  voice  of  the  black  fiddle  drowned  her 
words. 

The  fight  was  in  me  now.  I  would  have  done 
my  best,  but  I  still  held  my  head.  He  could 
have  killed  me  with  a  blow,  and  a  fight,  I  knew, 
would  only  make  matters  worse  than  they  were. 
It  would  create  an  open  scandal,  and  I  dared  not 
for  her  sake. 

Bela  understood  me  like  a  flash,  as  he  caught 
sight  of  my  clenched  hands.  Instantly  the  black 
fiddle  assumed  a  tone  of  apology.  It  was  my 


82      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

chance.  Much  as  I  dreaded  it,  I  left  the  room, 
and  sprang  down  the  corridor,  in  search  of  the 
night  clerk  or  the  maitre  d'hotel,  who,  I  knew, 
would  bring  matters  to  a  quiet,  respectable 
end. 

I  had  not  taken  three  strides  in  the  deserted 
ballroom  before  a  stifled  cry  reached  my  ears. 
As  I  burst  open  the  door  of  the  private  dining 
room,  the  Countess  Navieskowska  lay  in  Banda 
Bela's  arms  in  a  dead  faint. 

"  You  dog  of  a  gypsy ! "  I  shouted. 

He  wheeled  sharply  round  with  a  look  of  in- 
solent defiance,  still  holding  her  in  his  arms 
slightly  clear  of  her  chair.  The  next  instant  I 
had  seized  the  black  fiddle  that  lay  on  the 
table,  and,  raising  it  above  my  head,  threatened 
to  smash  it  to  pieces  over  the  silver  candelabra. 

"Here  is  the  end  of  this  devil  of  yours!"  I 
cried. 

The  threat  told.  He  let  the  countess  slip 
from  his  arms.  Then  he  sprang  toward  me. 
Then,  to  my  surprise,  halted,  a  cowardly  terror 
in  his  eyes.  His  voice  came  weakly,  as  if  the 
effort  strangled  him. 


THE  SAVAGE  83 

"Pardon,  Seigneur!"  he  gasped.     "Give  me 

-  give  me  —  that." 

His  outstretched  hands  shook  as  if  palsied, 
yet  he  dared  not  touch  the  black  fiddle  I  still 
held  threateningly  above  my  head 

I  glanced  at  the  countess.  She  lay  in  the 
carved  armchair  as  pale  as  wax  and  scarcely 
breathing. 

"Seigneur!"  he  cried  hoarsely.     "I  am  a  dog 

-  give  that  to  me.     It  was  my  father's,  Banda 
Laczi's." 

"Go!"  I  said,  and  I  passed  him  the  black 
fiddle. 

By  the  time  I  had  reached  the  countess, 
Banda  Bela  had  vanished. 

After  some  moments,  which  seemed  inter- 
minable, she  opened  her  dark  eyes,  and  stared 
at  me  like  a  stranger.  Then  slowly  I  helped 
her  to  her  feet,  and,  supporting  her,  we  passed 
out  together  through  the  deserted  ballroom. 

"It  was  not  your  fault,  dear  friend,"  she  mur- 
mured faintly. 

She  leaned  wearily  against  me,  uncertain  of 
her  strength,  to  gain  her  waiting  carriage. 


84      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

And  yet,  I  repeat  —  no  woman  ever  loved 
her  husband  more  than  the  Countess  Navies- 
kowska.  She  idolized  him,  and  fought  with 
that  indomitable  courage  to  save  him  until  the 
last  —  even  when  there  was  no  hope. 

The  nephew  leads  a  band  of  his  own  now  in  Monimartre; 
I  saw  him  the  other  night.  He  vaguely  remembers  the  coun- 
tess and  told  me  confidentially  that  his  uncle's  method  of 
playing  a  Czardas  was  old-fashioned.  F.  B.  S. 


CHAPTER  THREE 
VILLA  BY  THE  SEA 


My  nest  beneath  the  roofs  in  the  Rue  des  Deux  Amis  had 
became  insufferably  hot  these  July  days.  It  was  Marie  who 
advised  me  to  get  a  rest  and  some  fresh  air  along  the  Norman 
Coast.  She  suggested  Les  Rockers  and  the  Cheval  Blanc. 
But  for  Marie's  suggestion  I  should  not  have  seen  my  friend 
Toupin  and  his  Villa  Rose.  F.  B.  S. 


CHAPTER  THREE 

VILLA    BY    THE    SEA 

alluring  poster  heralding  the  opening 
<••     season  at  Bel- Air-Plage  —  "The  Pearl  of 
the  Norman  Coast"  —  had  been  tacked  up  by 
the  enterprising  real-estate  company  in  every 
railroad  station  from  Paris  to  Trouville. 

This  happily  conceived  lithograph  resembled 
Dinard  at  its  gayest,  with  Monte  Carlo  in  the 
middle  distance,  and  the  Garden  of  Eden  fading 
away  in  a  violet  haze  in  the  background.  The 
day  this  polychromatic  lie  depicted  was  one  of 
sparkling  sunshine.  Famous  beauties  of  the 

87 


88      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

Parisian  stage  were  bathing  in  an  emerald  green 
and  sapphire  surf.  Golf,  tennis,  and  diabolo 
were  in  full  swing  on  the  velvety  dunes.  Every 
child  on  the  perfect  beach  was  exquisitely 
dressed  and  beaming  with  health.  Their  sand 
forts  flaunted  the  tiny  flags  of  all  nations,  a  con- 
vincing proof  in  itself  of  Bel-Air's  international 
popularity.  Their  mammas  were  all  young  and 
smartly  gowned;  everybody  owned  a  new  auto- 
mobile, and  the  men  of  untold  wealth  and  leisure 
lolling  about  their  superb  cars  were  smiling  in 
faultlessly  pressed  flannels.  There  was  a  "joy 
of  life"  about  the  Pearl  of  the  Norman  Coast 
that  to  the  gullible  bourgeoisie  was  irresistible. 
It  is  needless  to  say  that  nothing  the  gay  poster 
depicted  existed  at  Bel-Air. 

Bel-Air  is  a  place  a  crow  would  avoid.  It  is 
too  lonely --too  bare.  The  low,  jagged  dunes 
fronting  the  sea  are  flanked  by  a  line  of  new 
brick  villas  that  stand  up  as  stark  against  the 
sky  as  a  row  of  packing  boxes  on  end.  They 
have  an  air  of  being  stranded  there  at  high  tide. 
A  few  tufts  of  wire  grass  struggle  here  and  there 
through  the  shifting  sand  for  an  existence.  The 


VILLA  BY  THE  SEA  89 

solitary  pedestrian  passing  the  Pearl  of  the 
Norman  Coast  after  dark  whistles  for  comfort 
until  he  gets  by.  When  it  rains,  Bel-Air  be- 
comes even  more  desolate.  It  becomes  tragic 
-  but  it  suits  that  genial  friend  of  mine,  Mon- 
sieur Paul  Hippolyte  Toupin.  It  is  gay  enough 
at  his  Villa  Rose. 

Toupin  adores  the  seashore.  He  rented  the 
Villa  Rose  with  enthusiasm.  "Paris!"  he  has 
a  habit  of  exclaiming.  "Mais  c'est  la  miser e, 
mon  cher!"  ("But  'tis  dire  misery,  my  good 
fellow!")  Despite  the  fact  that  this  bon  viveur 
of  a  Parisian  knows  the  "misery"  of  Paris  as 
well  as  the  inside  of  his  pocket,  and  has,  during 
most  of  his  fifty  years,  enjoyed  his  full  share  of 
its  gayety.  He  has  known,  too,  its  strenuous 
side,  for  Toupin  has  twice  been  elected  deputy, 
is  decorated  with  the  Legion  of  Honour,  and 
has  amassed  a  snug  fortune  in  commerce.  His 
Villa  Rose,  another  horror  in  brick  with  ma- 
jolica trimmings,  which  has  the  distinction  of 
being  isolated  from  the  end  of  the  line  of  packing 
boxes,  is  the  first  to  be  opened  and  the  last  to 
be  closed. 


90      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

Its  four  brick  walls  afford  the  only  shade  in  a 
ten -acre  lot  of  sand  shelving  back  from  the  dunes 
to  the  main  road.  Here  there  is  another  box  in 
brick  —  the  Hotel  des  Amis  Reunies  —  out  of 
whose  windows  are  hung  to  dry  the  bathing  suits 
of  some  theatrical  ladies  on  vacation,  who  spend 
most  of  their  time  in  calico  wrappers  purchased 
in  Montmartre. 

You  enter  the  Toupin  property  by  a  white 
gate  —  the  clasp  of  the  necklace  of  barbed  wire, 
back  of  which,  Cosette,  a  patient  mite  of  a 
donkey,  is  picketed,  ready  for  an  emergency, 
nosing  around  the  tufts  of  wire  grass  within  the 
limit  of  her  chain,  preening  her  long,  velvety 
ears  for  hours  in  the  gentle  breeze  screening  over 
the  dunes;  standing  in  meditation  when  it  driz- 
zles; grateful  that  she  possesses  a  shady  side 
when  the  wind  is  west  and  Bel-Air  shimmers 
under  the  noonday  sun,  though  her  shadow  is  so 
small  it  is  hardly  worth  while  contemplating; 
never  knowing  what  hour  of  the  day  or  night  she 
may  be  called  upon  to  save  the  situation. 
Tuesday  it  was  nearly  three  in  the  morning  be- 
fore she  got  to  bed.  I  have  had  many  a  long 


VILLA  BY  THE  SEA  91 

talk  with  Cosette,  and  I  am  convinced  she  con- 
siders the  Villa  Rose  a  maison  desfous,  which  in 
candid  French  means  an  insane  asylum.  She 
will  tell  me  almost  anything  entre  nous  if  I  will 
only  scratch  her  ears,  close  down  where  they 
emerge  from  her  strong,  dusty,  little  neck. 

Toupin  bathes  early  and  late.  A  big  green 
wave  smashing  over  his  fat  back  in  September 
makes  him  roar  with  delight.  He  loves  to  lie 
and  bake  in  the  hot  sand,  packing  himself  well 
up  to  his  pointed  gray  beard,  and  cracking 
away  the  crust  with  a  yawn  when  he  is  suf- 
ficiently baked.  He  loves  as  well  to  doze  in  his 
canvas  chair,  which  he  fills  to  the  squeezing 
point,  and  whose  left  leg,  still  labelled  with  the 
price  from  the  bazaar,  creaks  ominously  under 
his  weight. 

He  will  often  spend  the  whole  day  between 
tides  digging  for  sand  eels,  fishing  for  crabs,  and 
spading  up  sputtering  clams,  and  will  walk  for 
miles  up  the  beach,  filling  his  coloured  hand- 
kerchief with  glittering  shells.  There  are  days, 
too,  when  Toupin  goes  rushing  off  through  the 
country  in  his  big  red  car  when  it  runs;  and, 


9S      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

when  it  refuses  to  budge,  there  is  his  smaller  one 
—  a  squat,  greasy  little  automobile,  as  noisy  as 
a  threshing  machine;  and  when  both  are  out  of 
commission,  which  often  happens,  there  is  Cos- 
etce,  whose  tub  of  a  cart  has  all  it  can  do  to 
cany  Toupin  on  a  trot. 

Nothing  ever  worries  Toupin.  Every  day,  to 
him,  rain  or  shine,  or  filled  with  the  daily  trage- 
dies and  farce  comedies  of  life,  is  amusing  — im- 
mensely amusing.  His  laugh  is  big  and  hearty, 
like  himself,  a  laugh  that  subsides  hi  a  high- 
keyed  chuckle  —  irrepressible,  for  it  bubbles  up 
from  the  depths  of  his  good  nature.  There  is  a 
merry  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  and  his  health  and 
appetite  are  of  the  best  daily.  There  is  a  plenti- 
ful sprinkling  of  gray  hairs  in  his  short-cropped 
hair  and  pointed  beard,  but  even  these,  like 
everything  else  in  life,  Toupin  takes  as  a  joke, 
even  to  the  impossible  moods  of  Madame  Tou- 
pin, who  is  young  and  pretty,  a  captivating  little 
brunette,  slim  and  nervous,  with  the  dark  eyes 
of  an  odalisque,  and  whose  temperament  is  as 
fickle  as  the  sea  breeze. 

When  Madame  Toupin  assumes  a  fit  of  jeal- 


VILLA  BY  THE  SEA  93 

ousy,  plunges  into  extravagance,  becomes  the 
next  day  as  penitent  and  silent  as  a  nun,  or  en- 
joys an  attack  of  hysterics  —  Madame  Toupin 
is  as  much  at  home  as  an  actress  in  all  four 

-Toupin  fills  out  his  big  chest  with  a  breath 
of  sea  air,  stretches  forth  his  arms  in  his  white 
duck  suit,  and  smiles  over  his  flowing  black 
cravat.  The  cravat  of  an  artist,  which  gives 
him  the  air  of  a  happy-go-lucky  bohemian. 

Toupin  has  no  artistic  taste;  most  of  us  who 
have  become  slaves  to  it.  A  discord  in  music 
makes  me  wince.  A  false  harmony  in  colour 
affects  me  with  a  sensation  akin  to  pain.  I  am 
as  fastidious  as  an  epicure  in  wines,  and  the  pres- 
entation of  nourishment.  Neither  can  I  dine 
happily  under  the  brutal  glare  of  a  suspension 
lamp  with  a  pink-and-green  shade,  or  enjoy  the 
warmth  from  a  self-feeding  stove  ornamented 
with  nickel  cupids. 

I  have  a  horror,  too,  of  the  damp,  red  table- 
cloth and  the  heavy,  clammy,  red  napkins  found 
in  French  villas  by  the  sea,  and  thrust  for  future 
identification  in  dull  pewter  rings  bearing  the 
thumb  marks  of  the  maid.  All  these  the  good 


94      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

bourgeoisie  delight  in.  They  are  in  keeping  with 
the  imitation  bronze  goddesses  of  spring  and 
summer  poised  on  either  side  of  the  chocolate- 
marble  clock,  whose  pendulum  serves  as  a  gilt 
swing  for  a  china  child. 

They  are  all  fresh  from  the  bazaar  in  the  Villa 
Rose.  Toupin  spared  no  expense.  He  showed 
me  the  idiot  child  in  the  swing  with  pride,  and 
reminded  me  that  the  clock  never  lost  a  minute. 
Whereas  the  Toupins  are  never  on  time.  It  is 
safer  to  invite  them  to  tea  to  be  more  or  less 
sure  of  their  arrival  for  an  eight-o'clock  dinner, 
which  they  are  more  likely  to  arrive  at  by  nine, 
and  which  Toupin  will  merrily  explain  was  the 
fault  of  the  big  car  refusing  to  budge,  the  thresh- 
ing machine  out  of  commission,  and  Cosette  and 
two  bicycles  to  the  rescue. 

At  the  Villa  Rose,  the  feasts  are  movable, 
breakfast  often  becoming  a  late  luncheon,  din- 
ner frequently  a  midnight  supper,  and  bedtime 
close  to  dawn;  yet  never  have  I  seen  more  lavish 
hospitality.  It  needs  just  such  a  red  table- 
cloth of  tough  fibre  to  stand  the  daily  onslaught 
of  steaming  dishes,  and  the  wine  is  sound  and 


VILLA  BY  THE  SEA  95 

subtle  —  musty,  cheerful  bottles;  some  hailing 
from  an  ancient  chateau  in  Burgundy,  a  certain 
golden  champagne  from  Rheims,  and  a  smooth, 
savage  old  vintage  from  Corsica  that  would 
make  a  pirate  chief  forsake  his  ship  on  the  eve  of 
a  conspiracy. 

I  had  been  hard  at  work  for  a  month  up  the 
coast  from  Bel- Air,  in  a  picturesquely  dead  old  sea 
village  called  Les  Rochers,  harbouring  a  plain, 
clean  little  tavern  known  as  the  Cheval  Blanc, 
where  a  houseful  of  fellow  painters  and  myself 
discussed  art  at  luncheon,  and  renewed  the 
tumult  at  dinner.  Those  interminable  opin- 
ionated debates  over  technique  and  broken 
colour,  the  true  value  of  the  high  light,  and  the 
average  banality  of  composition  in  the  modern 
school.  I  had  grown  satiated  with  the  aesthetic, 
and  longed  for  common  old  Bel-Air,  for  good  old 
Toupin,  who  could  not  tell  a  Corot  or  a  Dau- 
bigny  from  a  dining-room  picture  in  a  bazaar, 
and  to  whom  the  sun  shone,  rain  or  shine,  three 
hundred  and  sixty-five  days  in  the  year. 

Vive  la  Bourgeoisie! 


96      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"Come  and  stay  with  us,"  Toupin  had  in- 
sisted a  dozen  times  in  the  last  month,  but  I  had 
stuck  to  my  unfinished  canvases.  The  red  car, 
just  out  of  the  hospital,  and  still  convalescent, 
growled  over  to  Les  Rochers  this  August  after- 
noon, with  orders  to  stay  there  or  bring  me  back. 

"Three  old  friends  and  my  little  niece  are 
here,"  Toupin  had  added,  in  his  insistent  note. 

To-day  I  needed  no  urging.  In  half  an  hour 
I  had  abandoned  the  Cheval  Blanc  and  its 
long-haired  pre-Raphaelites,  and  was  en  route 
for  the  Villa  Rose. 

The  red  car  left  me  at  the  white  gate,  smok- 
ing like  a  smudge,  and  still  suffering  from  lung 
trouble  on  the  starboard  side,  and  I  wondered 
how  any  man  but  Toupin  could  smile  when  he 
had  paid  eight  thousand  francs  for  so  blatant  a 
swindle.  Possibly,  I  thought  as  I  passed 
through  the  white  gate,  it  had  been  purchased, 
like  the  rest  of  his  seaside  possessions,  at  the 
bazaar. 

The  sun  was  setting  as  I  stopped  to  rub  Cos- 
ette's  ears,  a  red  disk  sinking  into  a  calm  sea  as 
heavy  as  oil,  and  even  Cosette  was  grateful  for 


VILLA  BY  THE  SEA  97 

the  cool  of  the  approaching  twilight  after  the 
heat  of  the  long  day. 

Over  on  the  crest  of  the  dunes,  to  the  right  of 
the  Villa  Rose,  a  group  of  four  figures  stood 
watching  me  from  the  platform  of  a  portable 
glass  summer-house,  an  unpopular  rendezvous 
for  lovers,  but  a  snug  retreat,  with  its  swinging 
canvas  chairs,  when  the  wind  blew.  So  I  left 
Cosette,  and  trudged  up  hi  the  heavy  sand 
toward  the  group  from  which  Toupin  now  waved 
a  welcome  to  me,  looking  like  a  fat  Pierrot  in  his 
suit  of  white  duck.  He  started  to  wade  down 
through  the  sand  to  meet  me,  but  I  waved  him 
back.  Madame  Toupin  blew  me  a  kiss  in 
greeting,  so  did  a  tall  young  woman  beside  her, 
whose  arm,  as  I  drew  nearer,  I  saw  was  about  my 
hostess's  neck.  I  strained  my  eyes,  but  could 
not  recognize  her,  so  I  accepted  the  mark  of 
affection  in  the  spirit  in  which  it  was  sent,  and 
returned  it  with  my  best  wishes  to  both. 

The  fourth  figure  in  the  group  was  that  of  an 
elderly  man  who,  as  I  came  within  speaking  dis- 
tance, ceased  talking  to  the  young  woman  — 
whose  hair  I  now  discovered  to  be  blond  — 


98      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

and,  thrusting  his  hands  behind  his  back, 
straightened,  and  awaited  my  arrival. 

"How  goes  it,  my  old  one?"  cried  Toupin, 
gripping  me  heartily  by  both  shoulders  as  I 
leaped  to  the  platform  of  the  summer-house. 

Toupin  welcomed  me  with  as  much  enthu- 
siasm as  if  I  had  been  rescued  from  the  sea. 
Madame  Toupin's  dark  eyes  were  alight,  her 
saucy,  nervous  mouth  opened  in  a  catlike  smile, 
revealing  her  wrhite  teeth,  white  as  ivory  in 
contrast  to  her  dark  skin  and  hair.  A  welcoming 
mood  that  I  felt  might  change  the  next  moment 
to  one  of  pique  or  jealousy.  She  gave  me  her 
shapely  little  hand,  and  drew  me  firmly  toward 
her  guests. 

"But  I  know  him!"  laughed  the  one  with  the 
golden  hair,  half  closing  her  blue  eyes  mischiev- 
ously as  my  hostess  started  to  present  me. 

"Ho!  Ho!"  roared  Toupin.  "She  is  mar- 
vellous—  Marcelle!  She  knows  everybody.  It 
is  true  that,  Twin?  Eh,  my  little  flirt?" 

He  chuckled,  amused  at  the  unexpected  little 
comedy;  and,  while  I  endeavoured  to  conceal  my 
puzzled  embarrassment,  the  elderly  man  shot 


VILLA  BY  THE  SEA  99 

me  a  glance  from  beneath  his  bushy  eyebrows, 
disclosing  a  pair  of  small  Machiavellian  black 
eyes,  as  hard  and  brilliant  as  polished  onyx. 

"Mademoiselle  Valcourt,  Monsieur  Ville- 
rocque,"  announced  my  hostess. 

I  bowed. 

Monsieur  Villerocque  gravely  closed  a  sen- 
sual under  lip,  framed  by  a  short,  square  beard, 
bent  stiffly,  and  again  straightened  —  this  time 
with  a  look  of  sullen  suspicion. 

"Bonjour,  toil"  exclaimed  my  unknown,  with 
the  ease  and  frankness  of  a  Montmartroise,  and 
that  indescribable  timbre  of  voice  one  hears  in 
late  cafes. 

;<  You  see,  I  have  a  better  memory  than  you," 
she  added,  and  her  smile  spread  to  join  two 
dimples  on  either  side  of  her  retrousse  nose  — 
the  nose  and  mouth  of  a  Parisian  gamine. 

The  eyes  of  Villerocque  scrutinized  me  now 
with  an  intense  and  sinister  brilliancy  as  I  smiled 
helplessly  at  the  lady  whose  memory  was  better 
than  my  own. 

"Tiens!"  she  laughed.  "You  don't  remem- 
ber me?  Never  mind!  Some  day  I  shall  tell 


100    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

you.  In  the  meantime  you  may  call  me  Mar- 
celle.  I  hope  your  studio  stove  burns 
better!" 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders  helplessly  in  apology, 
forcing  my  memory  to  recall  where  I  had  seen 
that  tall,  graceful  figure,  its  almost  boyish  sym- 
metry asserting  itself  beneath  her  lace  waist  and 
trim  walking  skirt.  Then  I  lowered  my  gaze 
to  her  feet,  incased  in  a  well-valeted  pair  of 
tan  Oxford  ties  —  American  Oxford  ties.  Influ- 
ence of  the  Quartier  Latin!  Ah,  a  glimmer 
of  light!  Yes,  surely!  Then,  like  a  flash,  the 
memory  of  my  old  friend  Fremier  crossed  my 
brain.  Sapristi!  Premier's  model !  My  model 
—  Marcelle! 

We  would  have  embraced  like  good  comrades 
had  I  not  again  felt  the  eyes  in  ambush  of  Mon- 
sieur Villerocque. 

"Ah!  So  it  is  zat  zee  time  goes  by!"  sighed 
Marcelle,  lapsing  discreetly  into  her  broken 
English  that  Villerocque  might  not  understand. 
"Eight  years,  mon  Dieu!" 

Instinctively  we  drew  apart  from  the  rest,  and 
a  flood  of  memories  came  back  to  us  both. 


VILLA  BY  THE  SEA  101 

"And  Fremier?"  I  ventured,  as  we  reached 
the  edge  of  the  platform. 

She  gazed  at  the  sand,  and  did  not  reply. 

"I  have  not  seen  him  in  years,"  I  added, 
"not  since  the  time  we  used  to  feed  you  candy 
to  keep  you  quiet  in  a  pose." 

The  smile  of  the  gamine  returned  —  a  gam- 
ine grown  up,  to  be  sure,  but  whose  good  heart 
was  the  same.  She  made  me  a  little  sign,  and 
we  wisely  turned  back  to  the  rest. 

"My  stove  has  a  new  top,"  I  whispered  rap- 
idly, not  any  too  sure  we  should  find  ourselves 
alone  again.  "At  Twenty-two  Rue  des  Deux 
Amis  —  you  will  come  soon  —  to  say  bonjour?" 

:'Yes,  my  little  one,"  she  replied  quickly.  It 
was  just  like  her  —  she,  with  her  big  heart  — 
and  turned  with  a  laugh  to  Villerocque,  who  had 
wheeled  on  his  heel,  and  stood  watching  in  a 
sort  of  slumbering  fury  a  colony  of  gulls  below 
him  quarrelling  over  a  heaving  mass  of  seaweed 
charged  with  rotten  food.  I  saw  Marcelle  rest 
her  chin  on  his  hard  shoulder,  her  coral  lips 
strained  in  a  smile  as  he  muttered  something  to 
her  through  his  grizzled  beard. 


102    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"  Marcelle  and  I  were  at  the  same  convent  to- 
gether," Madame  Toupin  started  to  confide,  as 
Toupin  slapped  me  soundly  on  the  back. 

"Eh,  my  old  one!"  he  laughed  heartily.  "A 
good  glass  of  vermouth  before  dinner,  hein?" 

And  he  shouted  to  his  butler,  who  had  sud- 
denly appeared  on  the  stoop  of  the  villa. 

"Ah,  so  you  know  Marcelle,"  continued 
Madame  Toupin.  "  She  is  a  good  girl,  Marcelle. 
Une  bonne  fille,  quoi?"  she  repeated,  in  an  ac- 
cent that  again  strangely  reminded  me  of  Mont- 
martre,  and  its  late  cafes,  especially  the  "quoi." 
"And  you  knew  Premier?"  she  added  graciously, 
regaining  her  married  voice. 

"For  years  we  used  to  lunch  together  daily," 
I  declared,  "at  the  Chien  qui  Danse  —  Mar- 
celle, and  he,  and  I  —  for  two  francs  fifty;  all 
we  could  eat,  and  of  the  best.  The  patronne  is 
dead;  it  costs  a  gold  piece  to  dine  there  now." 

"Poor  Fremier!"  sighed  my  hostess,  and 
raised  the  eyes  of  a  nun  to  mine. 

"Dead?"  I  asked  anxiously. 

"Married,  my  dear.  Bah!  That  was  stupid 
in  Fremier." 


VILLA  BY  THE  SEA  103 

"Poor  Marcelle,  she  loved  him,"  I  added, 
with  relief.  "And  the  aged  monsieur?"  I  ven- 
tured. "Ville  —  ViUe  —  Ville-  -" 

"Villerocque." 

"What  is  he,"  I  inquired,  "when  he  is  agree- 
able?" 

"What  —  you  do  not  know  him?  Very  well, 
he  is  the  famous  Gaspard  Villerocque.  It  is  he 
who  wins  so  successfully  the  big  divorce  cases  in 
Paris  —  an  old  friend  of  Paul's." 

"Eh!"  cried  Toupin.  "Our  vermouth!"  as 
the  yellow-waistcoated  butler  appeared  with  the 
tray.  'You  shall  soon  see  my  little  niece  — 
Lolotte.  She  is  adorable,  that  infant." 

The  eyes  of  the  nun  became  severe. 

"Adorable!"  roared  Toupin  bravely,  and  he 
whispered  in  my  ear:  "She  has  gone  off  with  a 
young  man  to  hunt  for  shells.  Ah,  an  excel- 
lent fellow  —  young  Jacques  Latour.  Lotte ! 
Lotte!"  he  shouted  lustily  across  the  dunes. 

There  came  in  answer  a  faint  halloo  from  be- 
yond a  distant  bank  of  sand. 

"Et  voila!"  cried  Toupin  rubbing  his  Hands 
with  satisfaction.  "What  did  I  tell  you?"  he 


104    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

said,  turning  to  his  wife.     "You  see,  they  are 
safe,  my  dearest." 

The  eyes  of  the  nun  flashed  in  reply. 

"Lotte  is  nothing  but  a  mere  child,"  explained 
madame,  with  a  look  of  ill -disguised  disapproval. 
"  You  are  quite  crazy,  Paul,  to  have  let  them  go 
off  alone.  It  is  monstrous." 

"Eh,  bien,  it  is  'monstrous,'"  laughed  Tou- 
pin.  "You  see  it  is  monstrous,  my  old  one. 
Et  voila!"  And  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
chuckled  as  Madame  Toupin's  anger  rose. 

"But  since  he  is  an  excellent  fellow ' 

I  interposed,  in  the  young  man's  behalf. 

"Lotte  is  barely  seventeen!"  snapped  Ma- 
dame. "A  child!  Quoi?  Bah!  All  you  men 
are  alike.  When  I  was  seventeen,  Monsieur," 
and  her  voice  sank  to  a  murmur,  "I  can  tell  you 
I  was  not  allowed  to  promenade  with  a  young 
man  alone." 

"When  you  were  seventeen,"  I  thought  to 
myself,  as  we  gathered  about  the  table  in  the 
summer-house,  and  raised  our  glasses  as  the  sun 
burned  down  to  its  rim  back  of  a  desert  of  mol- 
ten copper,  "when  you  were  seventeen  I  am 


VILLA  BY  THE  SEA  105 

pretty  firmly  convinced  you  were  telling  the 
story  of  your  life  to  any  young  man  you  chanced 
to  meet  around  the  Place  Blanche.  Penses  tu?" 

There  was  a  subtle  philosophy  in  Toupin's 
immaterial  gayety  which  I  was  just  beginning  to 
divine  the  reason  of. 

Villerocque  stood  at  my  elbow.  He  drained 
his  glass  in  noisy  gulps,  setting  it  back  method- 
ically on  the  table,  smacked  his  lips  thrice,  and 
cleared  his  grizzled  throat  while  I  lay  about 
me  for  something  to  say  to  him  —  to  break  the 
ice,  as  it  were,  that  lay  between  myself  and  this 
hard  old  man,  whose  grim  talent  had  won  a 
fortune  in  separating  forever  those  who  had 
once  loved.  Did  he  love  Marcelle,  I  wondered, 
or  had  the  vicissitudes  of  life  forced  my  good 
Marcelle  of  old  to  put  up  with  his  boorish  in- 
solence? There  emanated  from  this  social  exe- 
cutioner a  personality  born  of  relentless  cruelty, 
of  jealousy,  and  greed,  keen-edged  by  a  brain  of 
lightning  shrewdness  and  activity. 

"The  air  is  delicious  to-night,"  I  ventured, 
breaking  the  awkward  silence  between  us. 

"Ah!     You  find  it  so?"  he  grumbled,  slowly 


106    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

turning    his    head   and    his  glittering   eyes  to 
mine. 

"Rare  and  stimulating,"  I  continued,  with 
courage.  "No  microbes  here,  eh?"  I  laughed. 
"No  wonder  that  injections  of  common  sea 
water  have  been  discovered  to  be  one  of  the 
most  powerful  stimulants  known  to  prolong  life 
in  extreme  cases  of  exhaustion." 

"And  lapse  of  memory,"  he  snarled,  with  the 
vestige  of  a  leer,  the  episode  of  my  meeting 
with  Marcelle  still  rankling  within  him. 

"Memories  of  the  heart,  Monsieur,"  I  re- 
turned quietly,  "are  of  all  the  most  enduring." 

There  rose  to  the  peculiar  pallor  of  his  leaden 
cheeks  a  little  blood,  that  crept  up  and  settled  in 
the  lobes  of  his  coarse  ears  as  the  cool  voice  of  a 
young  girl  made  me  turn. 

She  came  up  over  the  crest  of  the  dunes,  fol- 
lowed by  none  other  than  the  prince  himself  - 
a  young,  clean-cut,  sunburned  prince  in  knicker- 
bockers, who  by  preference  chose  the  tracks  in 
the  running  sand  her  little  feet  had  made,  and 
graciously  let  her  win  the  race.  And  now  he 
nimbly  sprang  before  her,  for  his  little  princess 


VILLA  BY  THE  SEA  107 

was  quite  out  of  breath,  and,  putting  out  his 
hand,  he  pulled  her  easily  up  until  she  stood  safe 
on  the  platform  of  the  summer-house,  for  she 
was  slight,  and  nearly  seventeen. 

Then  she  blushed,  which  was  quite  as  natural 
with  her  as  breathing,  and  nodded  a  flustered 
little  attempt  at  a  bow,  and  brushed  back  from 
the  pure  oval  of  her  face  a  stray  wisp  from  her 
auburn  hair  that  the  sea  breeze  sent  again 
across  her  clear  brown  eyes  —  eyes  as  soft  and 
clear  as  her  fresh  young  skin,  which  was  as  pink 
and  white  as  a  tea  rose. 

No  wonder  Toupin  had  declared  she  was 
"adorable."  She  was,  and  in  contrast  to  her, 
the  group  of  seasoned,  worldly  debris  of  hu- 
manity about  the  table  seemed  leathery,  and 
old,  and  sodden. 

"Hurry,  my  little  sparrow,"  exclaimed  Ma- 
dame Toupin  sweetly,  though  her  dark  eyes  were 
drinking  in  the  young  man. 

"A  thousand  pardons,  dear  Madame,"  apolo- 
gized Latour,  "if  we  have  kept  you  waiting!  It 
was  my  fault,  I  assure  you." 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 


108    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"You  are  forgiven,"  she  said,  looking  straight 
into  his  eyes,  and  for  an  instant  I  saw  her  dark 
lashes  hah*  close. 

"We  went  nearly  to  the  point,"  explained 
Lotte.  She  slipped  shyly  into  a  chair,  still  out  of 
breath,  brushing  thedry  sand  from  her  white  frock. 

I  could  study  her  at  my  ease  now  —  her  child- 
like beauty,  her  delicate  features  in  repose,  and 
the  sensitive,  girlish  mouth,  whose  innocent 
lips  were  rosier,  and  needed  neither  the  crimson 
pomade  of  Madame  Toupin  nor  the  stick  of 
coral  of  Marcelle's  to  heighten  their  colour;  and 
we  were  very  soon  the  best  of  friends,  and  she 
told  me  eagerly  how  very  far  they  had  gone. 

:<  You  know  the  wreck?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

"Ah,  no!    I  do  not,"  I  had  to  confess. 

"But  you  know  the  mussel  rocks?" 
'  Yes,  yes  —  the  mussel  rocks  I  do." 

"Well,  a  long,  long  way  beyond  that.  And 
you  know,"  she  confided  seriously,  "it  is  quite 
dangerous,  they  say,  on  account  of  the  quick- 
sand." But  went  on  that  neither  Monsieur 
Latour  nor  she  had  found  any,  happily,  and  that 
her  feet  were  not  as  wet  as  they  looked,  for  they 


VILLA  BY  THE  SEA  109 

had  gone  nearly  all  the  way  by  the  mussel  rocks, 
at  which  the  clever  ears  of  Madame  Toupin 
overheard,  and  she  screamed  for  her  maid, 
though  young  Latour  and  Marcelle  assured  her 
they  were  dry,  at  which  Villerocque  disagreed, 
and  I  with  him. 

"  Nonsense ! "  roared  Toupin.  "At  Lotte's  age 
no  one  ever  caught  cold." 

Yet,  in  spite  of  it,  Therese,  the  maid,  came 
running  with  dry  shoes  and  stockings  for  made- 
moiselle. And  Lotte  put  them  on  with  the 
skill  of  unconscious  innocence,  much  to  Ville- 
rocque's  interest  as  he  glanced  at  her  little  feet, 
rosy  with  the  chill  of  the  sea,  and  as  we  con- 
tinued to  discuss  the  various  dangers  of  quick- 
sands, Lotte  and  I,  and  whether  golf  was  hard 
to  learn,  and  if  I  really  thought  to-morrow  would 
rain. 

I  saw  that  this  child's  merriment  was  a  verit- 
able tour  deforce.  Had  I  known  fully  then  what 
was  in  her  heart,  and  had  the  young  man  known ! 
But  he  did  not  —  how  could  he  have  known? 
They  had  been  gone  for  two  hours,  and  she  had 
not  dared  during  all  that  time  to  look  frankly 


110    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

into  his  eyes,  and  he,  in  the  good  sense  of  his 
twenty-five  years,  had  been  timid  in  what  he 
said,  and  still  more  careful  in  what  he  did,  being 
a  well-bred  young  Frenchman,  and  wise  in  his 
generation  —  at  ease  with  the  demi-monde,  and 
the  personification  of  shyness  and  discretion  be- 
fore a  pure  young  girl. 

I  had  a  right  in  liking  young  Latour;  and 
Madame  Toupin  had  not,  for  I  had  seen  her 
eyes  devour  him,  and  she  grew  irritable  as  she 
refilled  his  glass  of  Porto  under  that  strange 
nervousness  of  a  woman  in  love  who  cleverly 
grasps  every  stolen  chance  to  assert  it,  and  suffers 
under  the  hopelessness  of  indifference. 

If  Latour  saw  it,  not  a  gesture  or  a  look  of  his 
revealed  it.  More  likely  he  had  only  a  vague 
inkling  of  the  fact.  It  is  often  thus  that  young 
men  in  the  face  of  love  are  wholly  unconscious 
of  it.  This  indifference  was  torture  to  Madame 
Toupin.  Despite  her  coolness  before  others, 
you  saw  the  truth  struggling  about  the  corners 
of  her  tense,  nervous  mouth  —  tense  now  even 
when  she  smiled. 

If  Toupin  saw  it  he  ignored  it  —  evidently 


VILLA  BY  THE  SEA  111 

Monsieur  Jacques  Latour  was  not  the  first 
young  man  Madame  Toupin  had  fallen  in  love 
with.  If  it  was  plain  enough  to  Villerocque  he 
kept  it  shrewdly  to  himself,  saving  it,  as  he  did 
a  valuable  point  in  a  case,  until  the  moment 
came  when  he  could  launch  it  to  advantage. 
As  for  Marcelle,  she  was  too  much  of  a  bonne 
file  to  have  betrayed  any  one,  much  less  an  old 
comrade  of  her  convent  days. 

Night  was  setting  as  we  left  the  summer- 
house  and  strolled  back  to  the  Villa  Rose. 
Something  in  Villerocque's  attitude  made  me  let 
the  rest  go  ahead.  I  turned  slightly,  and  saw 
he  was  waiting  for  Lotte,  who  had  forgotten  her 
shells.  Presently  she  joined  him.  The  night 
wind  had  sprung  up,  but  evidently  Villerocque 
had  misjudged  its  direction,  for  I  could  hear  his 
hard,  low  voice  far  clearer  than  he  dreamed. 
His  short  remark  to  the  little  niece  made  me 
catch  my  breath. 

"You  are  well  taken,  my  little  one,"  said  he. 
"You  are  hopelessly  in  love." 

Had  he  struck  the  child  across  the  face  he 
could  not  have  been  more  brutal.  Her  lithe 


112    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

figure  seemed  to  stop  and  sway  for  an  instant. 
Then  I  saw  the  agonized  look  in  her  dear,  brown 
eyes  —  a  look  of  positive  terror  —  and  without 
a  word  to  him  she  ran  swiftly  ahead  of  us  into 
the  Villa  Rose,  and  slammed  the  door. 

He  might  as  well  have  said:  'You  are  a 
criminal.  There  is  nothing  that  can  save  you. 
You  had  better  confess.  I  shall  speak  to  the 
judge  to  give  you  a  light  sentence." 

I  believe  I  grew  pale  —  I  do  not  know;  I  only 
know  that  I  felt  the  anger  leap  within  me,  and 
that  with  it  came  a  peculiar  chill  and  the  rush 
of  a  sudden  strength,  strong  enough  to  have 
strangled  him;  then  I  pulled  myself  together, 
and  passed  up  the  ugly  little  stoop  of  the  Villa 
Rose  with  its  guests. 

During  dinner  that  night  Madame  Toupin 
suffered  from  an  "excruciating'*  headache, 
which  won  our  sincere  sympathy ;  and  she  smiled 
bravely,  and  said:  "It  is  nothing,  and  will 
pass,"  while  we  ate  heartily,  and  listened  to  the 
easy  argot  of  Marcelle.  Frank  enough  speech 
it  was,  too,  for  that  good  girl  has  a  habit  of  say- 
ing anything  that  enters  her  blond  head,  and  it 


VILLA  BY  THE  SEA  113 

was  gay  enough  to-night  to  have  satisfied  any 
seasoned  bohemian,  and  well  larded  with  "Pense 
tu's"  and  "Fiche  moi  a  la  paix!"  and  similar 
indelicate  exclamations  from  Montmartre,  in- 
terrupted now  and  then  by  the  common  satire 
of  Villerocque,  whose  acrid  jokes  Toupin,  with 
his  red  napkin  stuffed  in  the  side  of  his  neck  to 
give  his  throat  fair  play,  roared  over,  and  young 
Latour  submitted  to  with  his  best  manners, 
though  I  saw  him  now  and  then  wince  to  him- 
self. 

He  should  have  known  the  Toupin  household 
better;  nothing  that  was  said  there  ever  sur- 
prised the  butler  or  myself,  and  as  for  Lotte  — 
well,  a  jeune  fitte  who  is  permitted  to  come  to 
table  in  France  must  accept  the  conversation 
as  she  finds  it. 

It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock  when  we  finished 
dinner,  and  settled  down  over  our  cigarettes 
and  coffee  for  a  game  of  cards.  Then  up  came 
the  moon  —  silver,  flooding  the  heavy  sea  with 
its  mysterious  light  —  and  Madame  Toupin' s 
headache  grew  rapidly  better.  Skilfully  and 
naturally  she  sent  the  little  sparrow  to  bed, 


114    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

chose  a  fur  wrap  of  gray  squirrel,  the  same  silver- 
gray  as  the  beach  in  the  moonlight,  and,  having 
appropriated  young  Latour,  they  went  out  to- 
gether into  the  crisp  air,  away  from  the  gaudy, 
stuffy  little  salon  with  its  snapping  cards. 

In  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  they  were 
back,  Latour  enthusiastic  over  the  beauty  of 
Bel- Air  in  the  moonlight,  the  hostess  of  the  Villa 
Rose  looking  ten  years  older  beneath  a  smile  and 
a  dab  of  rouge. 

It  was  late  when  the  genial  laugh  of  my  host, 
the  grunts  of  Villerocque,  as  he  grimly  studied 
the  hands  dealt  him,  and  the  good  humour  of 
Marcelle  subsided,  and  we  rose  from  the  card 
table. 

"Listen,  my  children!"  announced  Toupin, 
as  he  rattled  the  pack  into  its  box.  'To- 
morrow —  ah,  you  shall  see !  Grand  fete ! 
Prodigious  fete!"  he  chuckled.  "My  fete! 
We'll  lunch  at  the  Mere  Thenard's,  at  Bonne- 
ville;  she  cooks  a  lobster  that  —  ah,  my  dears 
—  that  is  a  lobster!"  And  he  blew  a  kiss  to 
the  ceiling.  "Then  on  to  the  Pavillion  Dore  for 
dinner.  There  is  a  piano  —  we  shall  dance. 


VILLA  BY  THE  SEA  115 

Tra !  la !  la !  Eh,  my  little  flirt  ?  What  say  you, 
hein?"  And  he  began  to  waltz. 

"That  *  glues,'  my  old  one!"  exclaimed  Mar- 
celle,  unconscious  of  the  withering  look  of  dis- 
approval from  her  hostess. 

"Charmed!"  put  in  Latour. 

Madame  Toupin's  small  mouth  closed  tight. 

"Eh,  bien,  my  good  one!"  leered  Villerocque, 
and  shrugged  his  shoulders  hi  acceptance. 

As  I  passed  up  the  varnished  stairs  to  bed 
that  night,  I  stopped  to  gaze  out  of  a  tiny  win- 
dow on  the  landing.  Down  by  the  white  gate 
stood  Cosette,  thinking,  in  the  moonlight,  and 
I  hoped  and  prayed  the  two  automobiles  would 
be  in  running  order  on  the  morrow. 

I  had  hardly  closed  the  door  of  my  bedroom 
when  a  voice  called  my  name  from  without.  I 
opened  my  window. 

"A  letter  for  monsieur!"  shouted  a  bare- 
footed fisherboy. 

"Forme?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur.  The  postman,  Monsieur 
Jacquet,  forgot  to  bring  it.  It  is  marked  *  im- 
portant.' Monsieur  Jacquet  is  drunk,  Monsieur, 


116    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

at  the  hotel.  Monsieur  will  understand,  since 
Monsieur  Jacquet  is  drunk!" 

"Perfectly,  my  brave  one,  perfectly!  Slip  it 
under  the  door.  I'll  be  down." 

And  I  dropped  him  a  ten-sou  piece.  He 
doffed  his  fishing  cap,  slipped  the  letter  under 
the  front  door,  and  was  gone  in  the  moonlight. 

A  moment  later  I  read  the  following  from  my 
friend  Delacour,  at  the  Cheval  Blanc: 

Come  back  at  once.  American  here  wants  to  buy  one 
of  your  pictures.  Sale  looks  certain,  but  he  insists  on 
your  showing  him  where  it  was  painted  or  we  would  have 
turned  the  trick  for  you  ourselves,  as  we  need  the  money. 
Are  doing  our  best  to  hold  him  until  you  get  here. 

"Hurrah!"  I  whispered. 

I  felt  happy,  and  already  rich.  An  American 
dropped  from  the  sky  —  a  miracle  —  a  gilded 
dream.  I  mused,  elated  over  this  incredible 
piece  of  good  news,  for  never  in  the  history  of 
the  Cheval  Blanc  had  its  like  happened  before. 
Good  old  Delacour,  and  the  rest! 

I  sprang  up  the  varnished  stairs,  and  rapped 
gently  at  Toupin's  door  to  offer  my  excuses  for 
the  morrow. 


VILLA  BY  THE  SEA  117 

Three  days  later,  the  car  of  a  certain  Ameri- 
can whom  the  crowd  at  the  Cheval  Blanc  had 
held  captive  in  return  for  his  generosity,  de- 
posited me  at  the  white  gate  of  the  Villa  Rose. 
Not  a  soul  was  in  sight.  The  summer-house  was 
deserted.  They  were  gone,  evidently,  I  thought, 
on  some  all-day  fete.  I  trudged  up  through  the 
sand,  gained  the  ugly  stoop,  entered  the  Tou- 
pins'  household  by  way  of  the  deserted  dining 
room,  and  caught  sight  of  Marcelle  and  Toupin 
in  the  salon,  talking  earnestly  together.  So  en- 
grossed were  they  that  they  were  unaware  of 
my  arrival. 

"Eh,  bien!"  I  cried.     "I'm  back!" 

Marcelle  looked  up  with  a  naive  smile,  and 
moved  toward  me,  with  her  hands  outstretched 
to  greet  me.  Toupin  rose  out  of  an  armchair 
at  the  sound  of  my  voice. 

"Tiens!"  he  exclaimed,  smiling,  as  he  rose. 

"What  has  happened?"  I  ventured,  puzzled 
at  their  strangely  subdued  manner,  for  both 
seemed  to  have  lost  their  usual  breezy  geniality. 

Toupin  lifted  his  arms  in  a  gesture  that  in- 
dicated he  had  nothing  to  say. 


118    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"Happened,  my  little  one!  Ah!  la!  la!"  be- 
gan Marcelle,  and  likewise  raised  her  hands. 

"Marcelle  will  explain,"  exclaimed  Toupin, 
and  grinned. 

"Listen,  my  little  wolf!"  began  Marcelle. 
"It  is  fortunate,  my  rabbit,  you  were  not  here. 
Did  you  sell  your  picture?" 

"Yes,"  said  I.  "But  never  mind  that.  Is 
anybody  hurt?  111?  What  the  devil  has  hap- 
pened? Where's  madame?" 

Marcelle  pointed  to  the  ceiling. 

"In  bed!" 

"Nothing  grave,  I  hope!" 

"Ill,  in  bed!"  she  repeated,  with  the  vestige 
of  a  smile. 

"And  Villerocque?" 

"Gone!  Ah!  la!  la!  If  you  think  he  went 
pleasantly,  cet  animal  la!  In  a  fury!  If  you 
think  it  gay  to  argue  seven  hours  with  a  brute 
like  that,  who  never  lets  you  explain  anything. 
Ah,  zut,  alors!  I've  got  enough  of  Villerocque. 
He's  gone  to  Paris.  All  the  better!  He  can 
stay  there.  It  is  good  you  did  not  remain.  It 
would  have  given  you  a  headache.  That  old 


VILLA  BY  THE  SEA  119 

bull  roaring  out  his  opinions,  as  if  any  one  cared 
a  sou  for  his  sacre  opinions.  But  when  he  began 
to  attack  that  child,  very  well,  I  showed  him  my 
claws.  Parbleu!  It  is  not  a  sin  to  be  in  love,  is 
it?  It  is  not  a  reason  because  Lotte  is  seven- 
teen that  she  cannot  love." 

Her  voice  rose  vibrantly,  Toupin  letting  her 
continue,  with  a  shrug  of  approval. 

"Very  well,  when  one  is  seventeen  one  has  a 
right  to  love  whom  they  please.  I  began  earlier 
than  that  —  I  did.  Very  well,  it  is  done.  I 
tell  you,  he  could  not  frighten  Latour.  Latour 
told  him  to  mind  his  own  business!  That  if  he 
had  asked  Lotte  to  marry  him  it  was  their  affair, 
not  his.  And  if  he  wanted  to  be  further  en- 
lightened on  the  subject  he  would  send  his  sec- 
onds to  him  any  hour  he  wished.  Voila! 
That's  what  he  told  him.  Latour  is  an  excellent 
swordsman.  Lotte  is  an  orphan.  Paul  is  her 
guardian  —  eh,  bien!  Paul  gave  his  consent  to 
their  marriage." 

"Bravo!"  I  cried,  and  wrung  Toupin's  hand. 

"Et  vail&l"  chuckled  Toupin.  "It's  done. 
Latour  left  this  morning  to  tell  his  mother. 


120    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"Done!"  he  went  on  good-naturedly.  "Why 
not?  Latour  is  an  excellent  fellow,  and  he 
loves  her.  My  wife  is  furious.  Bah!  Louise 
will  get  over  it.  It  is  not  every  day  we  can 
marry  a  little  niece,  parbleu!  Eh,  my  little  flirt  ? ' ' 
And  he  patted  Marcelle's  cheek. 

"Penses  tu,  my  old  one!"  replied  Marcelle. 

Madame  Toupin  did  not  appear  at  dinner. 
Lotte  sat  beside  me,  grave,  happy,  radiant, 
and  twice  she  called  him  Jacques,  quite  as  if 
she  had  always  called  him  Jacques,  and  we 
filled  our  glasses  to  the  little  niece,  and  drank  her 
health  in  the  good  wine,  and  embraced  her  on 
both  cheeks  —  Toupin,  and  Marcelle,  and  I. 

A  year  has  passed.  The  Villa  Rose  is  no 
longer  Toupin's.  Within  a  week  after  Lotte's 
engagement  it  stood  stark  and  empty  on  the 
dunes,  and  a  sign  on  the  white  gate  read: 
"  Villa  clLouer." 

There  had  been  an  upheaval  in  the  Toupin 
household.  A  domestic  storm  had  raged  within 
the  Villa  Rose  the  like  of  which  it  had  never 
experienced.  It  was  the  culmination  of  Ma- 


VILLA  BY  THE  SEA  121 

dame  Toupin's  love  affairs,  as  far  as  that 
indulgent  philosopher  Toupin  was  concerned. 
Madame  Toupin  must  have  lost  her  head  to 
have  chosen  the  summer-house  for  a  rendezvous 
with  a  certain  young  lieutenant.  It  seems  that 
Toupin  chanced  to  pass  at  the  very  moment  the 
moon  shone  clear  of  its  scudding  clouds,  and  he 
stood  there  quietly  and  saw  them  embrace  — 
again  and  again. 

"  Et  voila!"  he  chuckled  to  himself,  and  passed 
on. 

It  was  the  next  day  that  the  domestic  storm 
broke,  and  Therese,  the  maid,  began  packing. 
The  able  Villerocque  won  his  case  with  his  usual 
masterful  summing  up,  and  the  divorce  was 
given  in  Toupin's  favour. 

Sapristi!  Had  Villerocque  only  known,  but 
how  could  he  have? 

It  was  only  the  other  day  that  I  received  the 
following : 

Monsieur  Auguste  Toupin,  director  of  the  chamber  of 
agriculture,  has  the  honour  to  invite  you  to  assist  at  the 
marriage  of  his  son,  Paul  Hippolyte  Toupin,  ex-deputy 


122    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

officer  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  with  Mademoiselle  Mar- 
celle  Valcourt,  which  will  be  held  at  Paris  the  third  of 
October,  nineteen-ten,  at  the  mayoralty  of  the  Sixteenth 
Arrondissement 

/  pass  that  scoundrel  Villerocque  often  as  he  prowls  along 
the  Boulevard.  I  saw  him  only  last  week.  Twice  he  shot 
me  a  sour  glance  of  recognition.  We  have  long  since,  how- 
ever, ceased  to  lift  our  hats  to  one  another.  I  have  a  positive 
disgust  for  this  diabolical  old  rogue. 

The  Villa  Rose  is  still  to  let.  F.  B.  S. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 
BY  THE  GRACE  OF  ALLAH 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

BY    THE    GRACE    OF   ALLAH 

THE  awning  shading  the  long  terrace  of  the 
Grande  Taverne  was  being  slowly  raised, 
as  the  dying  sun  burned  its  way  to  bed  back  of 
the  cool  green  trees  of  the  Luxembourg  Gardens, 
leaving  this  paradise  of  students  and  their 
sweethearts  in  the  dusk  and  mystery  of  the  soft 
spring  twilight.  A  twilight  under  the  spell  of 
which  the  heart  beat  quick;  a  twilight  in  which 
murmured  words  were  stifled  by  kisses  given 
and  not  stolen;  a  twilight  keen  with  the  savage 
fragrance  of  the  oozing  ground,  of  stirring  sap 

125 


126    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

and  sturdy  buds  bursting  their  bonds,  and  sweet 
with  the  perfume  of  the  horse-chestnut  blossoms 
and  the  lilacs  —  a  fragrance  of  growing  things 
that  filled  one's  lungs  with  the  drug  of  spring, 
and  stirred  one's  blood  like  a  draught  of  old  wine. 
Beneath  this  rare  perfume  of  spring  the  night 
air  lay  soft,  and  the  gentle  breeze   of  evening 
stirring  the  topmost  leaves  of  the  towering  trees, 
in  which  the  fat,  cooing  pigeons  were  settling 
for  the  night,  wafted  this  fragrance  of  the  old 
gardens  across  the  asphalted  square,  with  its 
single  fountain  spraying  the  backs  of  a  lazy 
school  of  goldfish,  and  sent  it  on  to  mingle  with 
the  more  worldly  perfumes  that  lurked  beneath 
the  slowly  rising  awning  —  the  clean  scent  of 
freshly  mixed  absinthes,  of  lemons  squeezed  upon 
cracked  ice,  of  stray  blue  whiffs  from  cigarettes, 
and  those  subtler  perfumes  from  hidden  sachets 
tucked  somewhere  within  dainty  corsages  fresh 
from  the  washerwoman,  and  through  whose  lace 
interstices  gleamed  flesh  that  was  young,  and 
firm,  and  fair,  and  now  and  then  the  ends  of  a 
narrow  ribbon  of  pink,  or  of  blue  to  match  her 
eyes. 


BY  THE  GRACE  OF  ALLAH  1*7 

It  was  spring,  and  the  world  that  lay  beyond 
the  Latin  Quarter  counted  but  vaguely,  like  a 
distant  land  one  had  never  seen. 

To  be  young  and  carefree,  with  a  few  francs 
still  in  one's  pocket;  to  have  youth,  I  say,  and 
to  turn  the  big  steel  key  in  the  worn  lock  of  one's 
studio  door  at  sundown  and  go  forth  as  I've  done 
in  my  own  studio  in  the  Rue  des  Deux  Amis  for 
years  —  where?  Ah,  we  never  knew;  but  across 
the  gardens  of  the  Luxembourg,  and  to  the  ter- 
race of  the  Grande  Taverne  first,  where  all  of 
we  bohemians,  struggling  daily  in  paint  or  in 
clay,  met  at  sundown  for  our  aperitif,  and  then 
to  dine  modestly  in  the  gay  old  tavern,  and  to 
let  the  night  bring  whatever  adventure  it  had 
not  provided  —  ah,  that  was  living ! 

We  were  like  one  big  family:  Jean  and  Mar- 
celle,  Yvonne  and  Gaston,  La  Petite  Amelie, 
Raoul,  Valdin  and  Rose  Javet,  Marie  Celeste, 
Claudine,  Henriette,  Suzanne,  and  so  many 
more  who  came  to  the  terrace  nightly. 

"Bonjourl     Cava?" 

"Ettaif" 

How  many  of  these  cheery  greetings  came 


128    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

from  brave  little  hearts,  from  which  emanated 
an  esprit  —  a  spirit  of  camaraderie  as  sincere 
as  a  religion.  They  were  honest,  for  they  never 
stole.  They  were  brave,  for  they  never  de- 
manded. They  were  discreet,  with  that  inborn 
sense  of  discretion  and  contentment  which 
Anglo-Saxon  women  are  ignorant  of.  They 
possessed  nothing,  yet  they  gave  with  an  un- 
selfish generosity  unknown  to  the  rich.  They 
were  proud  —  not  of  themselves,  but  of  any 
good  fortune  that  came  to  those  whom  they 
loved. 

When  Raoul  obtained  an  honourable  mention 
for  his  salon  picture,  Celeste's  pride  was  a 
revelation,  and  they  lived  to  love  and  be  loved 
in  turn. 

To  have  one  say:  "She  is  a  good  comrade," 
meant  more  to  them  than  to  say:  "She  is  a 
princess." 

She  had  entered  the  Taverne  an  hour  before 
any  of  us  had  reached  the  terrace  this  evening 
in  spring. 

A  total  stranger,  even  to  that  veteran  gar- 
c/w  de  cafe,  Francois,  whose  memory  was  colos- 


BY  THE  GRACE  OF  ALLAH  129 

sal.  She  made  a  strange  little  figure,  sitting 
alone,  before  the  latest  copy  of  "Le  Rire"  and 
a  coffee  cream. 

In  the  corner  she  had  chosen,  it  was  nearly 
dark,  for  the  cavernous  old  room  within,  with 
its  gilded  ceiling,  was  never  lighted  until  its 
tables  began  to  fill  for  dinner;  yet,  from  where  I 
sat  on  the  terrace,  close  to  the  open  window,  I 
could  see  her  plainly.  There  is  a  certain  lumi- 
nosity about  beauty  which  lends  a  distinction 
to  its  details  in  shadow. 

She  was  small  —  the  figure  of  a  child  rounded 
into  womanhood,  that  point  of  exquisite  de- 
velopment which  only  occurs  once  in  a  lifetime. 
There  was  about  her  whole  person  an  air  of  grace, 
of  gentleness  and  contentment.  Neither  was 
she  ill  at  ease,  for  she  raised  her  dark  eyes 
calmly  now  and  then  toward  the  open  door, 
and  turned  the  gay  pages  of  "Le  Rire9'  with  her 
small,  dimpled  hands,  smiling  to  herself  with 
the  eagerness  of  a  child  devouring  a  picture 
book. 

I  noticed,  too,  that  her  face  was  of  that  pure 
oval  one  sees  in  Oriental  women,  and  that  its 


130    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

tint  was  olive,  and  of  a  rare  translucence. 
When  she  smiled,  two  little  dimples  appeared 
close  to  her  small  mouth,  which,  when  open, 
revealed  her  pearly  teeth.  Her  hair,  which 
she  wore  in  a  bandeau  neatly  drawn  over  the 
tips  of  her  little  ears,  was  of  a  soft,  dark  brown, 
deeper  than  auburn,  and  shaded  by  a  simple  hat 
of  the  same  black  velvet  as  her  dress,  which  was 
perfectly  plain,  and  buttoned  with  many  little 
buttons  down  the  front  —  all  the  way  down,  I 
could  see,  to  her  small  feet,  which  did  not  quite 
reach  the  floor.  The  same  velvet  had  served, 
too,  to  make  an  old-fashioned  reticule  which  lay 
upon  the  table  beside  her  gloves,  trimmed  at 
the  wrists  with  a  narrow  binding  of  the  same 
cloth.  What  more  could  the  velvet  have  done? 
Had  she  not  used  every  vestige  of  it  wisely  and 
well? 

One  feels  a  certain  respect  before  such  charm- 
ing economy.  It  seemed  to  reveal  to  me  some- 
thing of  her  character.  Hah*  an  hour  passed, 
every  minute  of  which  I  fully  expected  some  one 
luckier  than  myself  would  arrive  and  offer  his 
apologies  for  his  lateness.  Still  no  one  came, 


BY  THE  GRACE  OF  ALLAH  131 

and  she  being  well  hidden  from  the  gaze  of  the 
terrace,  few  even  were  aware  of  her  presence. 

An  irresistible  desire  seized  me  to  speak  to  her 
-  this  strange  little  olive  beauty !  Her  small 
hands  were  a  delight  to  watch  —  they  and  the 
pure  contour  of  her  features  —  and  yet  I  dared 
not  move.  We  bohemians  are,  either  by  nature 
or  experience,  more  discreet  in  speaking  to  a 
girl  alone  than  are  many  others. 

I  motioned  to  Frangois.  It  seems  she  had 
arrived  over  two  hours  ago,  and  only  addressed 
him  with  the  single  word,  "Ca/e,"  which  she 
pronounced  with  a  strange  accent.  Cream,  he 
had  ventured,  pointing  to  the  spout  of  the  coffee- 
pot's mate,  and  she  had  nodded. 

"Then  I  brought  madame  (Le  Hire?"  added 
this  veteran  waiter.  "It  is  better  when  ladies 
who  are  not  of  the  Taverne  wish  to  be  alone." 

He  had  barely  finished  speaking  when  she 
raised  her  head,  and,  to  my  surprise,  our  eyes 
met  —  she  meeting  my  gaze  steadily.  She 
did  not  smile,  just  looked  at  me  with  a  certain 
childlike  curiosity  in  which  there  were  both  con- 
fidence and  respect.  I  could  resist  no  longer. 


132    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

I  got  up,  descended  the  three  steps  into  the 
Taverne,  and,  crossing  to  her  corner,  stood  be- 
fore her,  and  lifted  my  hat. 

"Forgive  me,"  I  said;  "will  you  be  good 
enough  to  pose  for  me?  A  thousand  pardons. 
You  are  alone,  is  it  not  so? .  And  for  so  long  - 

and   a   stranger '      These   stupid,   tactless 

sentences  rushed  from  me  with  hurried  unreason- 
ing, but,  to  my  joy,  she  looked  up  and  smiled  - 
ah,  such  a  gentle  smile!     I  wTaited  for  her  to 
speak.     The  clear  olive  of  her  cheeks  flushed  a 
little;  then  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  helplessly. 

Sapristi!  She  could  not  speak  a  word  of 
French,  and,  as  I  sat  down  on  the  worn 
leather  seat  beside  her,  she  clasped  her  little 
hands  in  her  velvet  lap;  but  I  saw  by  the  look  in 
her  eyes  she  was  content,  for  she  sighed. 

"Forgive  me,"  I  said,  in  English;  but  she 
shook  her  head,  and  then  I  halted  and  ventured 
again,  this  time  in  the  few  words  of  Italian  I 
had  picked  up;  then  in  German,  and  finally  in 
my  easier  smattering  of  Hungarian.  Slowly 
her  face  became  radiant. 

"  Egen!     Egen!"  she  exclaimed,  and  clapped 


BY  THE  GRACE  OF  ALLAH  133 

her  hands.  "Roumelie!  Roumelie!"  she  said,  in 
the  loveliest  voice  —  cool,  and  low,  and  gentle 
-  and  she  pointed  out  of  the  window  over  the 
towering  trees  in  the  possible  direction  of  her 
native  land. 

The  Taverne  now  blazed  up  in  light,  rapidly 
the  tables  filled,  and  every  furtive  eye  in  the 
room  was  upon  us.  Some  of  them  with  ill- 
disguised  jealousy,  especially  two  young  archi- 
tects from  Boston,  of  irreproachable  Parisian 
conduct,  Harvard  manners,  and  a  Beacon  Street 
accent.  But  Raoul  and  Valdin  only  smiled, 
and  lifted  their  hands  in  congratulation.  And 
then  an  idea  occurred  to  me,  and  I  beckoned 
to  Rose  Javet  to  join  us,  for  I  knew  my  little 
lady  of  the  velvet  gown  would  be  safe  with 
her  during  my  absence  —  that  big,  strong 
blonde,  with  her  ready  wit  and  her  heart  of 
gold. 

"Eh  bien,  my  old  one,  you're  in  luck!  Mon 
Dieu,  but  she  is  beautiful!"  exclaimed  Rose, 
and  not  many  women  compliment  another  in 
the  same  Taverne.  As  I  started  to  rise,  my 
little  lady  of  the  velvet  gown  looked  at  me 


154    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

pleadingly,  so  strangely,  as  if  I  were  her  master 
and  she  was  awaiting  my  bidding. 

"I  shall  be  back,"  I  explained,  in  Hungarian; 
"we  shall  dine."  And  after  I  had  repeated  it 
slowly  twice  she  understood,  and  smiled  con- 
tentedly, murmuring  something  in  her  own 
tongue,  and  inclining  her  head  in  a  deferential 
little  bow.  And  so  I  left  them  together,  and 
went  in  search  of  her  language  to  the  musty 
shop  of  Tranchard,  the  old  librarian,  whose 
stock  was  in  continual  disorder,  three  doors 
above. 

Tranchard,  who  reads  everything  an  inch  from 
the  page,  was  bent  over  the  evening  paper, 
scanning  it  microscopically  by  the  aid  of  a 
shadeless  kerosene  lamp,  placed  on  a  packing 
box  in  the  middle  of  two  heaps  of  second-hand 
knowledge. 

"Eh,  Monsieur  Tranchard!"  I  cried,  as  I 
entered.  "  Have  you  by  chance  among  this  muss 
of  yours  a  phrase  book  in  French  and  Roume- 
lian?" 

The  old  man  looked  up  solemnly,  and  re- 
moved his  spectacles. 


BY  THE  GRACE  OF  ALLAH  135 

"Eh  voilal  Monsieur  Pierre,  an  idea,  and 
at  this  hour!  Ah,  my  poor  Monsieur,  a  phrase 
book  in  the  language  of  Roumelie,"  he  wheezed. 
"Eh,  eh !  Of  Roumelie  —  of  Rou  -  -" 

He  got  up  stiffly,  and  his  gaunt  hands  searched 
along  a  dusty  shelf  packed  with  pamphlets. 

"  You  have  no  idea,  my  good  Tranchard,"  I 
explained,  by  way  of  encouragement,  "how 
badly  you  can  need  a  phrase  book  in  French 
and  Roumelian  when  you  need  it." 

"You  are  going  on  a  voyage?"  he  questioned, 
turning  slowly  from  his  search,  and  scrutinizing 
me  wearily  over  his  spectacles. 

14 Yes!"  I  cried  enthusiastically.  "A  long 
voyage,  to  the  land  called  Happiness,  by  way  of 
the  road  of  the  Two  Hearts.  A  swift  road,  Pere 
Tranchard,  for  chance  lends  you  a  hand  as 
guide,  and  there  is  no  lagging  with  chance,  once 
having  grasped  it.  Make  haste,  my  good  Tran- 
chard. Search!  Search!  Surely  a  Roume- 
lian student  has  sold  you  something.  Hurry, 
for  I  start  to-night!" 

"Eh!  Eh!"  he  wheezed,  still  regarding  me 
queerly,  his  hand  still  on  the  shelf.  "When  I 


136    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

have  one  absinthe,  I  stop,  my  good  Monsieur 
Pierre." 

But  I  let  him  think  what  he  chose.  I  saw 
that  he  was  tugging  at  something  thin  and  pink, 
wedged  between  a  dusty  dozen,  cinched  with  a 
string. 

Presently  he  snatched  it  out. 

"Had  I  not  a  good  memory? "  said  he.  "And 
at  this  hour!  Parbleu!  Four  sous  to  you,"  he 
added,  "since,  between  you  and  me,  I  believe 
you  are  either  drunk  or  crazy!" 

"Neither,  my  excellent  friend  in  need,"  I 
replied,  and  wrung  the  hand  that  had  searched 
so  diligently,  and  found  —  our  language,  mated 
so  nicely  side  by  side,  in  just  the  sentences  we 
should  need.  Indeed,  there  were  too  many  - 
we  should  never  need  them  all.  Many  seemed 
superfluous  as  I  read  by  the  glittering  Taverne 
lights  on  my  way  back  to  my  little  lady  of  the 
velvet  gown. 

I  love  We  love 

Thou  lovest  You  love 

He  loves  They  love 

And,  of  course,  the  very  words  for  "The  lob- 


BY  THE  GRACE  OF  ALLAH  137 

ster  of  my  uncle,"  and  "The  white  wine  of  my 
aunt." 

The  spring  weeks,  filled  with  their  delicious 
warmth,  went  by  one  after  another,  each  new 
morning  a  joy  to  be  alive  in.  Mornings  that 
found  us  together  in  the  gardens  of  the  Luxem- 
bourg, beside  the  stagnant  fountain  of  the  Medi- 
cis,  the  pink  phrase  book  between  us,  her  hand 
in  mine  —  that  exquisite  little  hand,  that  I  loved 
to  turn  over  and  over,  to  enjoy  with  my  eyes 
as  one  would  a  precious  ivory.  And  she  learned 
quickly  from  the  pink  book,  which,  indeed,  we 
were  never  without,  and  which  she  carried  for 
safe-keeping  in  the  velvet  reticule  in  which  lay 
all  manner  of  strange  things  —  the  certificate 
of  her  birth,  a  spool  of  black  silk,  and  a  needle, 
to  give  first  aid  to  the  injured  velvet  gown,  and 
a  small  silver  box  of  Oriental  design,  evidently 
very  old,  studded  with  turquoises,  and  secreting 
a  vial  of  attar  of  roses,  which  she  now  and  then 
touched  to  the  lobes  of  her  little  ears. 

She  told  me  everything,  over  and  over  again, 
from  the  beginning;  of  her  quick  decision  that 


138    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

day  in  Philippopoli  to  leave  him,  of  his  ungov- 
ernable temper,  of  her  letter  to  her  family,  and 
the  one  she  left  for  him,  sending  it  to  his  bar- 
racks at  the  hour  of  his  inspection  of  his  regi- 
ment, an  hour  when  he  could  not  follow  her  — 
and  of  her  flight  to  Paris  with  the  little  money 
she  had  so  patiently  saved. 

"Listen,  Pierre,  my  beloved:  There  is  no 
anger  in  me,"  she  would  repeat.  "Thou  hast 
never  seen  me  angry." 

"But  in  thy  country  surely  thou  hast  a  right 
to  love  whom  thou  wilt?"  I  declared. 

"We  must  obey,"  she  returned  simply.  "One 
must  serve  faithfully  one's  master.  When  thou 
art  chosen,  thou  must  follow.  It  was  in  one  of 
his  books  that  I  read  of  Paris,  that  one  could  be 
free  there,  to  be  chosen,  and  be  loved,  not  as  a 
slave.  And  so,  as  thou  knowest,  it  was  to  the 
big  cafe  that  I  had  heard  him  tell  of,  that  I  came 
first  after  the  train,  and  waited  —  and  thou." 

Her  dark  eyes  filled  brilliantly,  but  she  was 
smiling  as  she  drew  my  cheek  to  her  own. 

"Allah  is  good,"  she  whispered. 

The  pink  book  slipped  and  fell  to  the  ground, 


BY  THE  GRACE  OF  ALLAH  139 

and  a  fat  pigeon,  incensed  at  being  disturbed 
from  the  gravel,  thrashed  up  through  the 
feathery  green  leaves  above  us  to  quarrel  with 
his  wife. 

There  is  an  end  to  all  happiness.  It  is  the 
heavy  price  we  pay,  and  it  is  called  The  End. 
There  is  no  torture  conceived  by  the  human 
mind  that  can  equal  it,  since  it  is  filled  with 
hopelessness,  and  the  intensity  of  its  pain  is 
made  keener  by  separation.  The  only  thing 
The  End  lacks  is  death.  Some  of  us  accept  the 
latter  eagerly,  since  death  under  these  conditions 
seems  to  assume  the  dignity  of  a  true  friend. 

My  uncle  had  insisted  on  this  voyage  of  mine 
to  America  —  his  reasons,  his  interest,  a  young 
active  man  to  manage  his  interests  from  afar. 
At  his  age,  he  should  have  been  content  with  his 
chateau  in  Normandy,  and  his  shooting.  My 
"welfare!"  Bon  Dieu,  can  they  not  invent? 
My  "career!"  Ah,  yes,  my  career  —  what  did 
I  care  for  my  career?  The  pressure  came 
heavily  from  all  sides,  with  that  greased  inge- 
nuity of  a  combined  family.  It  is  amazing  how 


140    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

we  crumple  up  and  accede  when  one's  own  blood 
calls. 

There  is  no  reason  in  it,  neither  would  I  have 
crumbled  up  or  acceded  had  it  not  been  for  her. 

"It  is  the  wish  of  thy  people,"  she  said. 
"Have  I  not  loved  thee  well?  I  will  not  have 
it  said  of  thee  thou  art  not  brave.  Thou  wilt 
come  back  —  listen,  Pierre  —  back  to  me,  for 
thou  art  in  my  heart  forever." 

That  is  what  she  said,  and  we  cried  together 
through  our  last  dinner  at  the  "big  cafe."  Yet 
she  was  braver  than  I,  for  the  one  who  stays 
and  waits  is  always  the  bravest  —  and  it  was  to 
Rose  Javet  that  I  turned  this  time  in  my  hour 
of  need. 

"Heart!  You  speak  of  heart!"  Rose  is  so 
poor,  for  she  is  very  independent,  and  cares  for 
none  save  her  old  friends. 

"You  will  do  as  you  promise,  Rose?"  I 
went  on,  with  hurried  insistence,  during  the  few 
brief  moments  we  were  alone  that  last  evening 
after  dinner. 

'Yes,  my  old  one,"  she  said,  and  the  look  in  her 
honest  blue  eyes  was  as  good  as  her  sworn  bond. 


BY  THE  GRACE  OF  ALLAH  141 

"You  will  see  that  she  dresses  warmly,  Rose, 
and  not  be  reckless  like  the  rest,  and  wear  some 
stupid  decollete  mode  in  winter.     A  good  fire 
at  your  home,  the  good  soup  at  night.     Here,  if 
you  are  with  her,  she  will  be  well  in  the  little 
room  off  yours,  where  the  sun  shines." 
"Yes,  my  little  one." 
"Rose,  I  love  her." 
"Yes,  my  little  one;  I  know." 
"There  will  be  no  one  else,  Rose?" 
"No,  my  old  one;  there  will  be  no  one  else." 
And  at  the  train  which  left  the   Gare  St. 
Lazare  the  next  morning,  she  whom  I  was  leav- 
ing was  seized  with  trembling,  but  she  did  not 
cry. 

Two  years  passed  —  two  years  in  which  I  did 
my  duty  by  my  uncle,  and  in  which  her  letters 
made  my  exile  in  America  all  the  harder,  for 
they  were  faithful,  long  letters,  that  told  me  of 
her  daily  life,  of  all  that  happened  in  and  around 
the  old  Taverne.  Letters  full  of  the  sameness 
of  devotion  and  the  serious  philosophy  of  a  child. 
She  was  still  with  Rose  Javet,  and  worked  for 


142    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

a  modiste  in  the  Rue  de  Seine  during  the  months 
when  the  little  modiste  needed  an  extra  hand; 
and  when  the  work  grew  slack,  she  fashioned 
hats  for  her  friends  of  the  big  cafe  —  out  of 
nothing,  a  remnant,  a  ribbon,  and  generally  the 
same  feather,  which  her  dimpled  hands  knew 
how  to  place  with  a  chic  that  is  a  talent  in 
itself. 

And  then  a  day  came  when  she  decided  to  re- 
turn to  her  people,  for  reasons  that  concerned  the 
welfare  of  her  parents,  who  were  getting  old; 
and  it  was  thus  that  my  little  lady  of  the  vel- 
vet gown  became  gradually  a  memory,  for  six 
months  later,  when  I  returned  to  Paris,  she  was 
gone,  and  I  understood,  for  she  had  written  me 
much,  and  not  even  Rose  Javet  could  tell  me 
more. 

Two  years  passed.  It  was  spring  again,  and 
I  stood,  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land,  upon  the 
deck  of  an  energetic  little  steamboat  that  had 
picked  me  up  at  the  Marguerite  Island,  with  its 
baths  and  its  rose  garden,  and  was  now  breast- 
ing the  moonlit  tide  of  the  Danube,  zigzagging 


BY  THE  GRACE  OF  ALLAH  143 

across  this  fairy  river  to  touch  at  the  small  sta- 
tions on  its  way  back  to  Pest. 

There  is  a  strange  fascination  about  the 
Danube  in  the  moonlight  —  the  river  in  the 
moonlight  is  purely  Japanese.  The  air  was  soft 
to-night  —  the  air  of  the  Orient  —  soft  as  the 
water  in  the  ancient  baths  of  Buda,  soft  as  the 
scent  of  the  roses  I  had  just  left;  upon  the 
Marguerite  Island  one  can  bathe  to  the  music 
of  the  gypsies. 

Possibly  it  was  the  scent  of  these  roses  in 
spring  that  made  me  think  of  her.  I  do  not 
know.  I  only  know  that  with  a  sense  of  lone- 
liness upon  the  deck  of  the  steamboat  that  was 
now  sheering  away  from  a  station  with  an  un- 
pronounceable name,  a  sudden  desire  to  see  her 
took  possession  of  me.  This  wild  desire  to  find 
her  blotted  out  all  else  in  my  mind. 

Are  we  not  strange  beings?  Find  her,  but 
where?  There  was  not  one  chance  in  a  thou- 
sand, yet  I  dared  not  confess  it,  even  to  myself; 
and  as  the  steamboat  drew  away  from  Buda 
and  swung  near  the  glittering  lights  of  Pest,  I 
found  myself  searching  the  hidden  recesses  of 


144    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

a  worn  portfolio  for  a  folded  bit  of  paper  that 
had  lain  there  since  the  morning  of  our 
parting. 

It  was  still  there,  I  discovered  by  the  light 
of  the  deck  lantern,  but  so  creased  that  it  nearly 
fell  apart  as  I  opened  it  and  read  her  address 
in  Philippopoli.  This  cracked  scrap  of  paper 
now  assumed  an  importance  which  I  cannot  de- 
cribe;  my  whole  happiness  seemed  to  depend 
upon  its  preservation,  and  I  stood  there  drunk 
with  a  great  joy,  and  all  the  old  days  came  back 
to  me.  That  gentle  evening  in  spring  when  I 
first  espied  her  sitting  in  the  corner  of  the 
Grande  Taverne.  It  all  seemed  as  yesterday 
now.  I  could  hardly  wait  until  the  busy  little 
steamer  touched  the  wharf  at  Pest  to  send  a 
telegram. 

I  wrote  it  in  the  simplest  French,  clear  and 
concise,  that  she  might  not  be  puzzled;  and, 
with  a  dogged  confidence  in  the  charity  of 
Allah,  sent  it  forth  in  the  night,  a  distance  of 
over  thirty  hours  by  train.  And  all  that 
night  the  band  of  Toll  Janczi  played  to  me 
in  a  smoky  cafe  beneath  the  street,  for  I 


BY  THE  GRACE  OF  ALLAH  145 

could  not  sleep.  And  there  is  comfort  in  a 
gypsy's  fiddle. 

At  dawn  I  went  to  bed,  and  when  I  awoke  the 
sun  was  shining,  and  I  crossed  the  river  to  old 
Buda,  and  tramped  up  an  ancient  road  that  led 
to  a  fort  close  beside  a  little  cafe  with  a  garden, 
in  which  I  breakfasted  at  noon.  And  there, 
gazing  down  over  Buda,  I  killed  time  and  the 
dragging  hours.  The  wind  blew  fresh,  and  one 
was  well  there  in  the  little  garden,  and  I  dared 
not  hope  for  an  answer  much  before  night. 

Time    and    time    again,    I    said    to    myself: 

'  There  is  not  one  chance  in  a  thousand  —  you 

are  a  fool!"     And  a  strange  dread  would  seize 

me,     and     then     again     I    would    take    fresh 

courage. 

It  was  dusk  when  I  left  Buda  and  recrossed 
the  river  —  a  river  full  of  the  vague  mystery  of 
doubt  and  hope  to  me  now. 

And  there,  in  the  telegraph  office,  lay  my  an- 
swer —  an  answer  which  I  crumpled  up  from 
sheer  nervousness  before  I  gained  the  fresh  air 
and  broke  the  seal. 

Ah,  you  do  not  know!    You  can  never  know 


146    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

what  I  felt!     It  was  as  if  the  whole  world  was 
singing  joyously  in  my  ears,  and  I  felt  faint. 

PHILJPPOPOLJS  Tuesday. 

Arrive  Thursday,  one  o'clock. 

As  the  hands  on  the  clock  of  the  big  station 
crawled  slowly  toward  one,  I  gazed  down  the 
empty  track  under  the  steam-filled  shed  with  a 
beating  heart.  Had  she  changed?  How  in- 
credible it  was!  The  chance  I  had  taken!  Do 
not  say  you  do  not  believe  in  miracles!  I 
seemed  to  be  living  in  some  strange  dream,  in 
which  the  good  fairy  was  in  a  few  moments  to 
wave  her  jewelled  wand,  and  cry:  "Behold!" 

Five  minutes  more  —  but  the  clock  was 
wrong,  and  the  train  late.  No  one  seemed  to 
know  exactly  how  late. 

"It  came  from  very  far,"  explained  a  swarthy 
official  lazily. 

Hah*  an  hour  passed.  The  minutes  dragged 
so  the  hands  of  the  clock  seemed  to  have  grown 
weary  and  stopped.  One  hour!  One  torturing 
hour,  in  which  I  paced  up  and  down.  The 
strain  was  beginning  to  tell  on  me.  Ah,  mon 


BY  THE  GRACE  OF  ALLAH  147 

Dieu!  Then  suddenly  the  wailing  shriek  of  an 
engine  —  my  hands  grew  cold.  The  next  in- 
stant the  express  from  the  Orient  came  rumbling 
into  the  great  shed,  coughing  up  a  cloud  of  steam 
that  rilled  the  shed,  while  out  of  the  train  poured 
its  passengers  like  hurrying  phantoms  in  a  fog. 

"Pierre!" 

It  was  she! 

A  trim  little  figure  in  a  velvet  gown,  gray 
with  the  dust  of  the  East,  and  in  each  hand  she 
carried  two  round  paper  hatboxes. 

"Pierre!     Pierre!" 

Both  hatboxes  fell  to  the  ground.  One  rolled, 
and  a  Hungarian  gentleman  ran  after  it,  picked 
it  up,  and  set  it  down  beside  its  mate;  but  she 
did  not  see,  for  her  firm  little  arms  were  about 
my  neck,  and  her  lips  were  murmuring  "Pierre, 
Pierre!"  against  my  own. 

There  were  days  when  we  wandered  in  the 
soft  sunlight  over  Buda.  There  were  twilights 
when  the  small  steamer  carried  us  up  to  the 
Island  of  Roses,  and  she  sat  beside  me  on  the 
deck,  her  hand  in  mine,  and  all  the  world  seemed 


148    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

glad.  There  were  whole  days  which  we  spent 
idling  along  the  edge  of  the  Danube  as  far  as 
Vatz. 

Our  river  here  rippled  with  a  lazy  cadence 
against  a  pebbly  shore,  upon  which  we  built  a 
fire  and  breakfasted,  and  watched  the  water 
mills,  built  on  piles  far  out  on  the  turquoise  tide, 
turning  slowly  as  they  ground  the  peasant 
corn;  and  beyond  them  lay  stretches  of  waving 
rice  beds,  out  of  which  started  up  now  and  then  a 
flight  of  wild  duck.  And  beyond  these  lay  the 
velvety  green  lowlands  from  which  rose  in  the 
shining  haze  jagged  peaks  of  amethyst  and 
jade.  Sometimes  a  passing  gypsy  played  for  us. 
Often  a  huge  catfish  would  swirl  to  the  surface 
close  to  the  pebbly  shore. 

Ah,  how  much  she  had  to  tell  me!  Of  her 
mother's  illness;  of  how,  before  her  return,  she 
had  learned  of  his  being  ordered  far  out  of  her 
country  with  his  regiment. 

She  had  not  changed,  save  that  she  was  more 
beautiful  —  a  woman  now,  with  still  the  eager 
heart  of  a  child,  and  the  song  of  her  voice  was 
restful.  Often  she  counted  my  money,  that  the 


BY  THE  GRACE  OF  ALLAH  149 

modest  sum  might  last  long;  and  her  economy 
was  amazing.  She  could  invent  little  ways  to 
save  that  were  unknown  to  me. 

And  yet  again  the  end  came,  with  just  enough 
left  for  her  voyage  back  to  her  land  and  for 
mine  to  Paris.  It  was  a  parting  that  would 
have  been  unbearable  had  she  not  promised  to 
return  to  work  again  for  the  little  modiste  in  the 
Rue  de  Seine. 

How  blind  is  our  confidence  in  the  future! 

"You  are  getting  old."  That  is  what  I  say 
to  myself.  "You  are  forty -three,  and  you  are 
even  poorer  than  in  your  youth,  for  you  are 
more  philosophical  with  what  you  have,  and, 
besides,  happiness  is  not  given  at  your  age.  It 
is  bought.  People  are  beginning  to  have  a  cer- 
tain respect  for  you,  which  is  exasperating. 
Younger  men  now  address  you  as  *  Monsieur/ 
If  any  one  says  *  Tiens,  c'est  toi?'  to  you  now, 
you  smile  gratefully,  and  something  out  of  the 
past  grips  at  your  heart. 

"  Where  are  Marcelle,  and  Celeste,  and  Yvonne, 
and  Rose  Javet?  Gone!  And  the  Grande  Tav- 


150    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

erne  has  become  a  brazen  bazaar  of  nourish- 
ment. Be  glad  if  any  one  raps  at  your  studio 
door.  You  have  a  store  of  memories,  but  when 
you  recall  them,  it  is  like  gazing  into  an  empty 
drawer  that  had  once  contained  a  precious 
treasure. 

"You  have  grown  neater  in  your  appearance, 
for  to  be  slovenly  at  your  age  is  to  be  decrepid. 
You  have  grown  firm  in  your  prejudices,  and 
little  things  irritate  you.  You  are  getting  to  be 
an  absurd  old  ass.  In  a  few  years  you  will  be 
forced  to  wear  broadcloth  and  a  red  ribbon  in 
your  buttonhole,  and  people  will  address  you 
as  'Maitre,'  which  is  worse  than  'Monsieur.' 

:<The  devil!  And  you  expect  some  one  to 
love  you  at  your  age?" 

I  looked  up  from  my  reverie  out  of  the  studio 
window,  over  the  sea  of  leaden  roofs,  glistening 
under  the  thrash  of  a  January  rain  —  the  chim- 
ney hoods  whining  and  creaking,  as  if  in  pain, 
under  the  buffeting  onslaught  of  every  fresh 
gust.  Then  I  seized  my  storm  coat,  hat,  and 
umbrella,  and,  turning  the  key  in  the  rusty 
lock  of  my  studio  door,  started  to  join  my  old 


BY  THE  GRACE  OF  ALLAH  151 

friend,  Delacour,  across  the  Seine.  The  wind 
blew  the  rain  straight  in  one's  face.  I  lowered 
my  umbrella,  and  forged  ahead. 

As  I  turned  down  the  Rue  Mazarine,  on  my 
way  to  the  quay,  I  caught  sight  only  of  the  feet 
of  the  passersby,  and  thus  I  continued  down 
this  narrow  ravine  of  a  street,  whose  sidewalk 
shrinks  against  the  fronts  of  its  ancient  houses 
at  the  very  places  where  it  should  widen. 

On  now  past  the  hobnailed  boots  of  a  coal 
man,  past  the  trim,  high-heeled  boots  of  a  made- 
moiselle, who,  I  discovered  upon  raising  my 
umbrella,  was  pretty.  Past  a  dignified  old 
gentleman  hurrying  along  the  dripping  walls  of 
the  Institute  —  shoes  out  of  date,  but  neatly 
brushed.  Past  a  butcher  boy,  and  two  priests, 
in  shoes  that  might  have  fitted  two  giant  grand- 
mothers; past  a  pair  of  little  shoes  and  a  glimpse 
of  a  black  skirt,  and  I  passed  them  with  a  strange 
sensation.  I  stopped,  and  raised  the  umbrella, 
for  I  had  awkwardly  touched  the  figure  in  passing. 

"I  demand  pardon,  Madame,"  I  apologized, 
and  turned  to  raise  my  hat.  Then  my  heart 
for  the  moment  seemed  to  stop  beating. 


152    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

She  had  stopped  also,  and  her  eyes  were  wide 
open,  and  looking  into  mine  with  the  stare  of  a 
woman  whose  heart  had  also  nearly  stopped 
beating. 

A  short,  round  little  woman,  with  a  full  oval 
face,  no  waist,  and  small  hands  gloved  in  lisle 
thread,  broken  at  the  thumb  and  forefinger, 
which  grasped  an  umbrella  with  a  leaden  swan 
for  a  handle. 

Neither  of  us  had  yet  uttered  a  word 

"Pierre!  Pierre!"  she  exclaimed  faintly,  in 
the  laboured  voice  of  a  ghost. 

"C'est  toi,  c'est  bien  toi?" 

And  we  stood  there  trembling,  unable  for 
the  moment  to  speak. 

Then  I  took  her  hand  in  mine  —  a  hand 
which  did  not  seem  alive  —  and  nodded  to  a 
passing  fiacre. 

"Ten  Rue  des  Deux  Amis,"  1  believe  I 
stammered  to  the  grizzled  coachman. 

"Bien,  Monsieur." 

But  she  hesitated,  even  drew  back,  still 
trembling,  her  foot  on  the  muddy  step,  a  plead- 
ing look  in  her  eyes.  Then  a  sudden  faintness 


BY  THE  GRACE  OF  ALLAH  153 

seized  her,  and,  without  a  word,  she  entered  the 
stuffy  fiacre,  smelling  of  the  stale  cigar  of  the 
last  client,  and  burst  into  tears. 

We  had  so  much  to  say  we  could  say  nothing. 
Now  and  then  fragmentary  sentences  escaped 
us  as  we  rattled  on;  mostly  apropos  of  her  hat, 
which  was  knocked  askew  and  out  of  fashion  — 
like  her  dear  dress,  the  skirt  of  which  was  shiny. 
Then  I  unbuttoned  a  worn  mite  of  a  glove, 
stripping  it  gently  from  a  small,  pudgy  hand, 
red  from  housework,  with  two  dimples  in  place 
of  one,  and  showing  those  unmistakable  signs 
of  industry  —  the  roughened  pricks  of  a  needle. 

"Listen,  Pierre,"  she  began,  taking  courage, 
and  then  faltered.  "It  is  not  right  that  I  go 
there,"  she  breathed.  "It  will  be  only  for  a 
moment,  since  thou  hast  insisted." 

"Thou  shalt  come,  nevertheless,"  I  remember 
saying,  "if  it  is  only  to  welcome  thee  as  far  as 
my  door." 

She  drew  close  to  me,  shuddering  as  if  the  eye 
of  Allah  were  upon  her. 

"Listen,  Pierre,"  she  murmured,  gripping 
my  hand.  "  I  am  married.  I  have  told  him  all." 


154    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

She  was  quite  pale,  her  lips  parted  in  a 
timid  smile.  For  some  moments  neither  spoke. 
Then  she  resumed  nervously,  her  voice,  little 
by  little,  gaining  courage: 

"  I  have  a  great  esteem  for  him.  He  is  very  kind. 
He  is  one  to  whom  I  owe  much.  We  have  three 
boarders  —  a  gentleman,  a  lady,  and  her  son. 
It  keeps  me  very  busy,"  she  explained  seriously, 
"for  we  cannot  afford  to  keep  a  servant." 

I  lifted  the  small,  red  hand  to  my  lips. 

"Pierre,  it  is  pretty  no  longer,"  she  said. 

The  windows  of  the  fiacre  shivered  as  we 
rattled  into  the  Rue  des  Deux  Amis. 

She  drew  hastily  from  her  breast  a  tiny  silver 
watch,  and  glanced  at  it  with  a  start. 

"Four  minutes  to  five!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Pierre,  Pierre,  I  cannot,  even  for  a  moment! 
It  is  too  late." 

'Yes,"  I  returned.  "You  are  right  It  is 
too  late.  Where  art  thou  going?" 

"To  the  Rue  Jean  Roubet.  Pierre,  thou  wilt 
forgive  me?" 

I  leaned  out  of  the  window,  and  touched  the 
old  cabman's  arm. 


BY  THE  GRACE  OF  ALLAH  156 

*'To  the  Rue  Jean  Roubet." 

"Bien,  Monsieur.'" 

"Tell  him  to  stop  at  the  corner,  at  the  end  of 
the  big  wall  of  the  hospital,"  she  added  ner- 
vously. 

"Is  he  ill?"  I  questioned  anxiously. 

"Ah,  no!  Allah  be  praised!"  And  for  an 
instant  her  face  became  radiant. 

"Listen,  Pierre.  Thou  must  know:  He  is 
very  wise." 

Again  the  free  hand  went  to  her  breast,  and 
she  drew  forth  a  printed  paper,  unfolded  it,  and 
pointed  to  a  paragraph  as  we  neared  the  cor- 
ner of  the  Rue  Jean  Roubet. 

"It  is  he,"  she  murmured  as  I  read: 

Friday,  at  five  o'clock,  in  room  B,  lecture  by  the  Pro- 
fessor Delfontaine  on  Anaesthesia  and  the  Heart. 

The  fiacre  stopped  at  the  corner  under  the 
great  wall,  cheerless  and  massive  as  that  of  a 
prison  in  the  rain. 

"Thou  must  not  get  out,"  she  said  gently, 
with  a  pleading  look. 

Then  she  rose,  leaned  forward,  kissed  me  rev* 


156    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

erently  on  both  cheeks,  squeezed  past  my  knees^ 
opened  the  door  quickly,  and  was  gone. 

It  was  the  end,  and  I  sat  there  for  some  mo- 
ments, immovable,  staring  at  the  tears  sliding 
down  the  blurred  windows  of  the  fiacre,  my 
heart  tingling  with  a  strange  feeling  of  mingled 
peace  and  gratitude. 

I  never  saw  her  again,  yet  the  memory  of  her  is  as  clear 
as  if  it  happened  yesterday:  as  if  she  still  stood  before  me 
as  she  did  that  morning  in  Pest  —  the  velvet  dress  dusty  from 
her  long  journey,  the  two  hatboxes  in  her  hands.  Only  the 
other  evening  Toupin  and  I  were  strolling  before  dinner  in 
the  Luxembourg  Gardens  and  I  passed  the  same  bench  where 
we  used  to  sit  beside  the  stagnant  fountain  of  the  Medicis. 

F.B.  S 


CHAPTER  FIVE 
THE  THOROUGHBRED 


The  old  Latin  Quarter  has  changed  since  the  good  old  days 
of  our  tavern  friends.  My  friend  the  painter,  Ransom,  and 
I  find  the  liveliest  centre  of  Paris  —  around  the  opera  — 
more  amusing  nowadays.  The  old  Latin  Quarter  —  at  least 
the  old  life  there  —  is  no  more,  or  are  we  getting  older? 
Marie  laughs  when  we  discuss  these  things  —  but  then  Marie 
is  still  young.  F.  B.  S. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

THE    THOROUGHBRED 

IT  WAS  five  o'clock,  and  the  Parisian  Bar 
was  crowded.  The  talk  was  in  many  lan- 
guages —  vibrant,  gesticulating  talk  from  Rio 
De  Janeiro;  calm,  steel-like  talk  from  wealthy 
jockeys;  confidential  conversation  from  the  last 
man  in  the  world  to  acknowledge  he  was  broke; 
blatant  speech  from  florid  gentlemen  with  broad 
shoulders,  fat  stomachs,  and  an  unquenchable 
thirst. 

"Hello,   Charley!     Well,  say,   can  you   beat 
it?     If  you're  good  I'll  buy  you  a  drink.     Lis- 

159 


160    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

ten!     Did  you  ever  hear  the  story  about - 
Hold  on,  this  is  a  crackajack.     Have  you  heard 
it?     Boy,  take  the  orders." 

The  electric  fans  were  whirring  at  top  speed 
to  get  rid  of  the  smoke.  Some  old  gentleman 
coughed  and  declared  it  was  "too  hot  in  here." 

"Say,  I  got  a  car  outside  that's  a  wonder. 
Come  out  to  Bellevue,  and  get  some  air." 

Over  the  rattle  of  the  cocktail  shaker  jarred 
the  talk  —  a  steaming  bedlam,  apropos  of 
women  and  horses,  and  Preferred  Pacific,  and 
General  Electric,  and  the  terrible  night  that, 
had  passed;  and  some  said  "Never  again,"  and 
ordered  a  gin  fizz,  and  squeezed  their  way  to 
the  stock  ticker;  and  some  said:  "Did  he 
went?"  and  others:  "Was  you  there?"  and 
"How  is  the  missus?"  "Present  my  regards." 
And  the  smoke  was  thick,  I  say,  and  some  were 
married,  and  some  were  not,  and  all  had  lived 
the  pace. 

It  was  a  sort  of  public  club,  whose  dues  were 
a  franc  a  drink,  and  whose  membership  included 
every  type,  from  the  soul  of  honour  to  the  trans- 
atlantic crook.  Here,  too,  came  daily  the  re- 


THE  THOROUGHBRED  161 

tired  politician,  at  rest  in  a  foreign  land,  and  who 
spoke  of  the  old  days  and  Tammany  Hall  with 
tears  in  his  eyes.  And  there  was  a  broken  ghost 
with  a  shield  of  true  love  tattooed  on  his  gaunt 
hand,  a  blazon  containing  the  flag  of  the  United 
States  of  America  intertwined  with  the  Union 
Jack,  and  beneath  it  the  words  in  blue:  "  Mag- 
gie." His  check  also  had  not  come.  Besides, 
it  was  Paris,  that  magnet  of  the  world  which  is 
a  dangerous  place  for  the  man  with  nothing  to 
do  and  Broadway  habits. 

Somehow  the  Parisian  Bar  "made  one  feel  at 
home,"  and  there  was  Paris  outside  to  reel 
around  in  and  get  late  for  dinner;  and  some 
buttonholed  you  and  told  you  the  pet  stories 
of  Noah,  and  you  had  to  roar  and  say:  "Boy, 
take  the  orders,"  shoulder  to  shoulder  next  to 
the  sober  jockeys,  and  a  few  sparring  partners, 
and  the  faded  nobility;  the  successful  business 
men,  and  the  fat  one  whose  jewelled  rings  guar- 
anteed his  wealth  from  the  Argentine  Republic. 

And  so  they  steamed,  and  so  they  swore,  and 
most  of  them  told  you  all  about  themselves,  and 
nothing  about  Her.  Briefly,  it  was  a  place 


162    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

where  the  selfish  beast  was  frankly  in  his  ele- 
ment, and  you  marvelled  at  the  patience  of  their 
wives. 

Then  entered  Jason  —  Captain  Reginald 
Rivers  Jason  —  tall,  and  slim,  and  soldierly. 
You  saw  that  calm  courage  of  his  in  his  clear, 
gray  eyes,  and  his  breeding  in  his  clean-cut 
features.  Jason  impressed  you  from  the  first 
as  a  thoroughbred.  From  the  top  of  his  blond 
head  to  the  heels  of  his  immaculately  valeted 
boots,  he  convinced  you  of  being  the  well-bred 
young  Englishman  that  he  was.  His  voice  was 
one  of  those  refined  voices  that  do  not  jar  on  the 
nerves,  for  it  was  soft,  pitched  low,  and  the 
English  he  used  was  fit  enough  for  a  printed 
page 

He  was  exceedingly  modest,  and  when  he 
spoke  of  himself  there  was  almost  a  note  of 
apology  in  his  voice  for  having  done  so.  One 
thing  that  was  most  amazing  about  Jason  was 
the  clear,  healthy  freshness  of  his  skin,  and  the 
brightness  of  his  eyes.  He  looked  like  a  man 
who  went  to  bed  at  eight  o'clock,  and  drank 
mineral  water  by  preference;  whereas,  the  fact 


THE  THOROUGHBRED  163 

was,  Jason  seldom  went  to  bed,  and  had  a 
capacity  for  brandy  fizzes  that  was  as  amazing 
as  his  memory. 

We  had  met  again  in  the  Parisian  Bar  this 
soft  May  morning,  and  for  the  first  time  I 
noticed  Jason  showed  signs  of  fatigue.  There 
was  just  the  vestige  of  a  sleepless  night  about  his 
eyes. 

"Tired?"  I  ventured. 

He  coughed  slightly,  and  said,  in  his  calm, 
gentle  voice: 

"I  took  a  long  walk  last  night." 

"Where?"  I  questioned. 

"The  stars  led  me  on,"  he  said,  smiling,  and 
added:  "I  walked  halfway  around  Paris  by 
way  of  the  fortifications." 

"It  is  a  wonder  you  were  not  stabbed  or 
shot,"  I  declared. 

"No,  old  chap,"  he  returned.  "No  one 
troubled  me.  You  see,  I  love  to  walk  at  night. 
That  is  why  I  have  five  small  apartments  in 
different  quarters,  so  I  can  turn  in  at  dawn  in 
the  nearest  where  I  happen  to  be." 

I  said  nothing,  and  Jason  said: 


164    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"It  is  warm,  rather;  is  it  not?" 

And  I  said: 

"I  shot  over  a  big  shoot  of  an  old  friend  the 
other  day  in  Sologne.  The  heat  was  fearful. 
We  were  sizzled." 

And  Jason  said: 

"I've  been  to  see  my  dogs.  Charming  coun- 
try out  there  —  too  lovely  for  words  —  and  the 
stars  —  I  walked  quite  all  night." 

"Dogs  with  you?"  I  inquired. 

"Yes,  God  bless  them!" 

"How  many  have  you  acquired?" 

"Well,  old  chap,  I  must  confess  to  more  dogs 
than  I  should  have.  I've  got  thirty-two." 

"Thirty-two?  And  you  keep  thirty-two  dogs 
and  still  have  enough  to  eat?" 

Jason  coughed  slightly,  and  continued  gently: 

"I  dare  say  I'm  a  fool  to  keep  so  many,  but  I 
found  a  charming  estate  —  one  of  those  little 
old  chateaux  \vith  the  towers  and  steep  roofs, 
and  I  couldn't  resist  it.  My  dogs  had  not  seen 
me  in  a  twelvemonth,  and  they  were  overjoyed; 
rushed  pell-mell  from  my  guard's  house  when  I 
whistled ;  just  one  short  whistle  at  the  gate,  and 


THE  THOROUGHBRED  165 

they  came  madly  rushing  to  me.  You  know, 
I've  got  a  Scotch  terrier,  and  when  the  rest  of 
the  troupe  followed  me  that  night,  the  little  fel- 
low, the  Scotch  terrier,  stuck  to  my  heels;  I 
thought  it  was  rather  nice  in  him,  for  we  had 
quarrelled  a  twelvemonth  before,  and,  do  you 
know,  I  believe  he  knew  he  was  in  the  wrong?" 

Jason  sipped  his  brandy  fizz,  threw  a  coin  on 
the  bar,  and  I  said  nothing. 

His  modesty  held  him  silent. 

"Forgive  me,  old  chap,"  he  said  at  length, 
"if  I  have  talked  too  much.  I  love  dogs.  Do 
you  remember  the  Comte  de  Joinville's  de- 
scription of  his  wolfhound?  You  must  get  that 
book.  Still  better,  let  me  send  it  to  you." 

"That's  good  of  you,"  I  said,  "but  I  hate  to 
borrow  books.  I  never  think  to  return  them." 

"But  I've  got  a  first  edition,"  he  insisted. 
"I'll  tell  my  solicitor  to  send  it  to  you.  He's 
rather  conscientious,  you  see.  It's  in  my  library 
in  London.  I  haven't  seen  my  house  in  years, 
but  I  dare  say  he'll  find  it.  You  see,  old  chap, 
something  happened  —  the  thing  you  call  the 
game  of  love  —  and  since  then  I've  never  cared 


166    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

to  return.  I've  taken  the  Channel  steamer  sev- 
eral times,  and  balked  when  it  came  to  ringing 
my  own  doorbell." 

"Memory  of  her?*'  I  ventured. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  I  met  her  in  India  —  rather 
rough  on  me.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  maha- 
rajah." 

I  sipped  my  fizz,  and  Jason  was  silent. 

"When  were  you  in  India?"  I  asked,  at 
length. 

"Several  times,"  he  replied.  "I  was  born 
in  China.  I  like  India  better,  even  more  than 
Borneo." 

"Borneo!"  I  exclaimed.  "There's  a  coun- 
try I  should  like  to  see." 

"Rather  amusing  —  Borneo,"  said  Jason. 

"And  you  lived  there?" 

:'Yes,  among  head-hunters,  barefooted,  for 
two  years  on  the  open  beach.  Wonderful 
nights,  old  chap!" 

"Tell  me  more,"  I  said. 

"Oh,  there  isn't  much  to  tell,"  said  Jason. 
"Except  they  were  kind  to  me,  and  made  me 
blood-brother  of  their  tribe.  I  shall  never  forget 


THE  THOROUGHBRED  167 

their  constant  little  warfares  and  their  quite 
feudal  hospitality.  They  had  rites,  you  know, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing;  and  dancing,  and 
great  feasts  on  the  beach." 

"And  tortures,"  I  added. 

"It  was  done  rather  too  quickly  for  torture," 
Jason  replied,  touching  the  rim  of  his  glass  with 
the  crest  ring  of  his  own  people. 

The  more  I  saw  of  Jason,  the  more  I  grew  to 
respect  that  quiet  voice  of  his,  and  the  marvel- 
lous stories  of  his  life,  which  I  only  obtained 
piecemeal,  owing  to  his  extreme  modesty. 
Never  had  I  known  his  equal,  and  when  this 
morning  I  mentioned,  as  we  stood  talking,  how 
fit  he  looked,  he  informed  me  he  had  not  been 
to  bed. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  I  ventured  indis- 
creetly. 

"Down  in  the  markets,  old  chap.  I  lend  a 
hand  there  once  in  a  while  —  just  at  dawn. 
Last  night  we  unloaded  cabbages.  Great  game, 
unloading  cabbages,  and  there  are  some  queer 
old  characters  down  in  the  Halles.  The  one 


168    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

drawback,  you  see,  is,"  he  added,  after  a  faint, 
nervous  cough,  and  a  fresh  order  for  a  fizz,  "is 
that  one  has  to  drink  absinthe  —  rather  bad 
absinthe,  I  should  say.  Generous  chaps,  those 
big  fellows  who  load  the  carts." 

"And  rather  insistent,  I  suppose,  that  you 
should  drink  with  them,"  I  ventured. 

"One  can't  very  well  refuse,"  he  went  on. 
"Rather  an  exciting  night  last  night.  We  un- 
loaded five  carts  —  we  had  to  work  fast.  You 
see,  everything  depends  on  the  hour  of  the  first 
sales;  often  there's  barely  time." 

"And  so  you  did  not  go  to  bed  at  all?" 

"No,"  he  said  gently.  "I  went  for  a  ride 
in  the  Bois.  I  keep  my  saddle  horses  there. 
I've  only  two  now.  You  see,  old  chap,  I've 
made  a  bet  with  myself  not  to  touch  my  prin- 
cipal, and  I  thought  that  the  four  other  nags  I 
had  were  only  a  useless  expense.  It  costs  rather 
dear  to  keep  a  horse  here,  whereas  in  England 
one  can  have  one's  horses  more  or  less  reason- 
ably." 

"So  you  sold  the  four?" 

He  smiled,  and   when  Jason  smiles  it  is  a 


THE  THOROUGHBRED  169 

kindly  smile,  touched  with  apology  and  re- 
gret. 

"I  must  confess,  old  fellow,  I  didn't  sell  them. 
I  gave  them  away,"  he  confessed.  "Possibly 
you  remember  four  little  English  girls  who 
danced  at  the  Folies  Bergeres.  They  were  quite 
too  lovely,  but  I  imagine  the  life  of  a  theatre  is 
a  little  hard.  And  there  happened  to  be  a  chap 
who  knew  them,  and  when  he  introduced  me 
I  found  them  quite  pale.  So  I  said :  *  You  must 
ride,  my  dears.'  'But  we  don't  know  how, 
sir!'  they  said.  'Then  you  must  learn,'  I  told 
them.  And  I  had  Briquet,  the  riding  master, 
teach  them.  And  I  said:  'When  you  learn, 
and  Briquet  tells  me  you  are  quite  sure  in  the 
saddle,  you  shall  each  have  a  horse  for  your 
very  own." 

"By  George!  That  was  nice  of  you,"  I  put 
in.  "And  they  learned?  And  they  still  ride, 
I  suppose?" 

"Charity  is  rather  difficult,"  said  Jason,  after 
a  pause.  "One  never  knows  quite  what  to  do 
in  giving,  you  see.  Briquet  fell  in  love  with  the 
eldest,  and  sold  the  horses,  and  eloped  with  her  to 


170    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

Brussels.  I've  rather  blamed  myself  for  my  trust 
in  Briquet.  He  was  rather  a  rotter,  wasn't  he?  " 

Jason  paused,  and  I  said  "Damn!"  out  of 
sympathy  for  him. 

Now,  the  more  I  saw  of  Jason,  I  say,  the  more 
I  was  impressed  with  his  genuineness  and  his 
sincerity.  Now  and  then  he  would  refer  to  his 
several  different  domiciles  scattered  over  Paris; 
and  although  it  was  evident,  as  he  was  wont  to 
say,  that  he  sometimes  passed  the  night  in  one 
of  them  where,  as  he  told  me,  "everything  was 
always  in  readiness,  should  he  turn  the  key  in 
the  door,  and  where  his  caretaker  was  never 
absent,"  months  would  often  pass  during  which 
he  entered  none  of  them.  These  caretakers, 
he  told  me,  he  had  collected  in  England.  And 
he  had  but  one  great  weakness  as  far  as  I  could 
discover  —  his  love  of  Persian  rugs,  and  he 
bought  them  so  that  at  the  end  of  the  month, 
for  he  had  an  account  with  three  Armenian 
rug  experts,  his  rug  bill  ran  higher  than  his 
weekly  losses  at  the  races. 

"And  I  believe,  old  chap,"  he  said,  "if  I  did 
not  hold  myself  well  in  check  with  a  tight  rein, 


THE  THOROUGHBRED  171 

I  should  be  quite  ruined  in  a  fortnight.  I  love 
good  rugs.  They  are  like  old  friends.  I  love 
the  soft  colours.  There  is,  after  all,  nothing 
like  a  good  rug.  It  has,  if  I  may  say  so,  a  per- 
sonality of  its  own.  Just  like  my  wolves  had." 

"Wolves!"  I  exclaimed. 

'Yes,"  said  Jason.  "You  know  I  had  a 
house  once  close  to  the  Bois,  quite  in  the  forest." 

"And  wolves?" 

"Yes,"  he  confessed,  "four.  There  is  no  more 
trusty  watchdog  in  the  world  than  a  forest-bred 
wolf.  They  became  very  much  attached  to  me, 
and  then  there  is  always  a  sense  of  danger,  you 
know.  One  nearly  killed  my  gardener,  whom 
for  some  strange,  and  to  me  wholly  unaccount- 
able, reason  he  had  taken  a  violent  dislike  to." 

After  Jason  made  a  statement  of  this  kind  he 
was  unusually  silent,  twisting  his  blond  mous- 
tache, and  coughing  slightly  out  of  a  sort  of  ner- 
vous embarrassment  for  having  spoken  of  himself 
at  all. 

There  were  hours  when  the  Parisian  Bar  was 
deserted,  and  as  Jason  seldom  ate  anything, 


172    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

and  more  seldom  went  to  bed,  he  found  a  cer- 
tain restful  repose  when  the  Parisian  Bar  was 
empty;  and  so,  one  night,  we  sat  there  during 
the  empty  hours.  And  no  sound  broke  his 
even,  quiet  voice  save  the  buzz  of  the  electric 
fan,  and  I  saw  him  wince  a  little  as  he  leaned 
over  to  light  a  fresh  cigarette. 

"In  pain?  "I  asked. 

"No,  old  chap,  not  worth  speaking  of,"  he 
replied.  "It  passes  quicker  than  it  once  did. 
It's  only  an  old  wound.  I  had  the  good  luck 
to  be  among  the  first  to  enter  Peking.  But  that 
is  another  story.  This  old  keepsake  of  a  bul- 
let, if  I  may  call  it  so,  I  got  getting  over  a  wall 
during  one  of  our  skirmishes  in  the  Boer  War. 
Strange  to  say,  I  was  thrice  wounded  climb- 
ing over  obstacles." 

I  looked  up  at  him  with  profound  respect, 
and  again  marvelled  at  this  remarkable  man; 
and  soon  he  was  chatting  briskly  —  an  unusual 
thing  with  him  —  about  his  losses  at  the  races, 
which  that  week  had  been  heavier  than  usual. 

And  just  then  in  came  Billy  Ransom.  The 
Lord  knowrs  Ransom  is  quixotic  enough,  but  he's 


THE  THOROUGHBRED  173 

nothing  compared  with  Jason.  Now,  Bill  and 
I  have  been  friends  for  years.  You  may  re- 
member "Tiger  Drinking."  The  salon  gave 
him  a  medal  for  it,  and  Ransom  got  lazy  after 
that,  and  had  his  studio  cleaned.  I  had  just 
mentioned  to  Jason,  as  we  three  sat  talking, 
Ransom's  "Tiger,"  and  Jason  declared  quietly 
that  to  him  the  tiger  was  the  king  of  beasts, 
and  not  the  lion. 

"I  dare  say  there  are  those  who  might  differ 
with  me,"  he  added,  "but  to  me  the  grace  and 
beauty  of  a  pure  Bengal  are  a  glorious  sight." 

"Ever  seen  one  wild?"  asked  Ransom.  He 
hulked  back  his  big  shoulders,  and  there  was 
a  good-natured  twinkle  in  his  blue  eye. 

;<Yes,"  said  Jason. 

"Where?"  I  ventured. 

"In  India  —  with  my  elephants,"  added  Jason. 

"  Your  elephants?" 

"Yes,  old  chap.  One  has  to  have  them,  you 
know.  It  is  quite  too  dangerous,  you  see,  to 
shoot  tigers  without  elephants." 

"Gee!"  said  Ransom.  "I  never  knew  you 
had  hunted  tigers.  And  you  got  one,  eh?" 


174    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

Jason  smiled. 

"Wait,  let  me  count,"  he  said  slowly.  And 
he  counted  on  his  fingers,  interrupting  himself 
with  some  unintelligible  names  of  places  in  the 
tiger  districts. 

"Seventeen,"  he  finally  declared. 

"Seventeen  what?"  I  inquired. 

"Tigers,"  reph'ed  Jason.  'The  largest  one 
I  remember  killing  was  upon  the  estate  of  a 
maharajah,  a  great  friend  of  my  uncle's." 

"Tell  me  more,"  I  demanded,  now  alive  with 
interest,  though  there  was  a  genial  curl  of  doubt 
about  Ransom's  under  lip. 

"Ah,"  said  Jason,  "there  isn't  much  to  tell. 
Killing  tigers  is  like  killing  anything  else.  Be- 
sides, with  a  good  elephant  —  if  the  beast  is 
getting  the  better  of  him,  the  elephant,  you  see, 
just  rolls  on  him  while  you  hang  on." 

"Go  on!"  said  Ransom,  with  a  roar  of  laugh- 
ter. "Don't  kid  me.  Why,  you'd  be  killed 
when  he  rolled." 

I  saw  Jason  stiffen,  grow  a  little  red;  and  I  saw, 
too,  that  Ransom's  ill-bred  remark  had  hurt 
Jason. 


THE  THOROUGHBRED  175 

"None  of  my  elephants  have  ever  hurt  me,"  he 
replied  simply,  after  an  awkward  pause.  "My 
old  Tor,  who  was  my  best  elephant  for  three 
years,  would  have  sooner  been  killed  than  to 
have  hurt  me.  Once,  when  I  was  obliged  to 
leave  him  for  a  fortnight,  he  ate  nothing  for 
several  days." 

"And  his  joy  at  seeing  you  on  your  return?" 
I  added,  by  way  of  balm  to  Ransom's  affront. 

"Rather,"  said  Jason,  and  I  saw  the  tears 
start  in  his  eyes. 

Of  course,  Ransom  felt  like  thirty  cents,  and 
he  deserved  to. 

If  you  don't  like  this  true  story  it's  no  fault 
of  mine.  I'm  only  trying  to  tell  you  about 
Jason.  To  me  he's  a  marvel.  To  Ransom  — 
well,  Ransom  is  one  of  those  rapins  of  Mont- 
martre  who  believe  in  no  one.  You  have  only 
to  look  into  Jason's  eyes,  calm  and  clear  as  a 
spring,  to  know  he  is  telling  the  truth. 

That  is  what  I  told  Ransom,  and  I  saw  him 
hesitate,  and  then  take  water;  and  finally  he 
agreed  I  was  right.  And  we  three,  Jason,  and 
he,  and  I,  were  good  friends  after  that,  and  I 


176    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

loved  to  sit  and  hear  Jason  talk  in  his  quiet, 
sincere  way  about  episodes  and  incidents  that 
many  another  man  would  have  boasted  over  in 
imagining  more  than  had  really  happened, 
whereas  Jason  was  calm  and  exact,  and  had  no 
imagination  whatever,  which  was  proof  enough 
to  me  he  didn't  lie. 

Now,  the  vicissitudes  of  life  are  constant  ever 
among  the  rich,  and  a  man  like  Jason,  who  can 
afford  to  dash  across  the  Channel  and  back  to 
dine  with  friends  in  London,  is  not  exactly  a 
pauper,  and  this  is  what  Jason  did  every  now 
and  then,  for  I  saw  him  myself  leave  the  Parisian 
Bar  in  a  taxicab  to  catch  the  night  express  twice 
to  my  knowledge,  to  dine  with  friends  in  London. 

Naturally,  I  did  not  ask  with  whom,  any  more 
than  I  would  have  been  indiscreet  enough  to 
inquire  the  number  and  street  of  his  various 
domiciles.  They  were  purely  Jason's  affair, 
and  not  mine,  and  if  he  did  not  offer  the  in- 
formation himself,  I  certainly,  as  I  say,  did  not 
intend  to  drag  it  out  of  him,  much  as  I  was  in- 
terested in  this  strange  man,  and  convinced,  as 
I  was,  of  his  splendid  sincerity. 


THE  THOROUGHBRED  177 

I  believe  it  happened  before  three  whiskies 
and  sodas,  but  when  I  think  of  it  again,  one  was 
an  eggnog  —  that  was  Ransom's  —  and  Jason, 
standing  between  us,  and  in  a  hurry  to  rush  to 
the  races  at  Longchamps,  felt  for  his  pocket- 
book.  He  withdrew  his  hand  from  the  pocket 
of  his  check  suit,  and  a  peculiar  calm  smile  crept 
to  the  corners  of  his  eyes.  Oh,  only  for  a  second, 
but  the  smile  did  not  escape  me. 

"What's  happened?"  I  asked. 

"Nothing  worth  thinking  over,"  returned 
Jason.  "  I  dare  say  it  was  foolish  in  me  to  have 
carried  so  large  a  sum  about  with  me. " 

"Gone?"  I  exclaimed. 

;'Yes,"  he  replied  gently. 

"Where  were  you  last  night?" 

"Oh  — intheHalles." 

"  Unloading  cabbages,  of  course. " 

"No,  beets.  Last  night,"  he  said,  turning,"  last 
night  was  the  heaviest  I  remember  in  my  life. " 

"And  yet  you  look  as  fresh  as  a  young  colt 
out  of  a  field,"  I  returned. 

"How  much  money  did  you  have  with  you?" 
interrupted  Ransom. 


178    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"Five  or  six  thousand  and  odd  francs,"  said 
Jason,  very  quietly. 

"Five  or  six  thousand  francs!"  we  exclaimed, 
aghast. 

"You  lost  five  or  six  thousand  francs!  And 
you  carried  that  sum  into  the  Halles,  and  into 
the  worst  dives  I  know?  It's  amazing,"  I  de- 
clared. 

"More  foolish  than  amazing,"  returned 
Jason. 

"Who  took  it?  Have  you  even  a  vestige  of 
an  idea?"  I  ventured. 

"Yes,"  said  Jason.  "A  little  girl  in  Qua- 
vous'.  You  know  Quavous'  cafe,  next  to  the 
fish  market.  You  see,  old  chap,  she  was  cry- 
ing, and  I  felt  sorry  for  her." 

"And,  somehow,  her  head  found  a  resting 
place  on  your  shoulder." 

;'Yes,"  said  Jason  frankly.  "I  felt  sorry  for 
her." 

"While  she  felt  for  your  pocketbook,"  said 
Ransom. 

"I  dare  say  that  is  what  occurred,"  confessed 
Jason. 


THE  THOROUGHBRED  179 

"And  you  are  not  going  to  the  police?"  ex- 
claimed Ransom,  in  surprise. 

"It  would  only  get  her  into  trouble,"  said 
Jason.  "One  must  be  tolerant  in  life  with 
those  who  are  unfortunate.  Besides,  their  life 
is  hard  enough." 

"Say,"  said  Ransom,  "you're  a  noble  per- 
son, and  I  like  you,  but  you  take  the  cake! 
She'll  have  a  carriage,  a  gown  from  the  Rue  de 
la  Paix,  and  an  apartment  near  the  Bois  by 
to-morrow." 

"It  was  a  sum  one  of  my  solicitors  had 
brought  me  from  an  estate  over  in  Sussex,"  ex- 
plained Jason,  "and  he  came  quite  late  to  my 
hotel,  just  as  I  was  going  out  last  night.  And  I 
thought  nothing  more  about  it,  and  put  it  into 
my  pocket.  Can  you  see?  After  all,  it  doesn't 
matter.  I  should  more  than  probably  have  lost 
it  to-day  on  the  races.  It  is  a  little  awkward, 
isn't  it,  being  Saturday,  and  the  bank  closed?" 
I  looked  at  Ransom,  and  one  of  those  mental 
telegrams  passed  between  us.  Jason  was  too 
good  a  fellow  to  refuse.  He  accepted  the  mod- 
est sum  we  managed  to  produce  between  us. 


180    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"If  it  wasn't,  you  see,  old  chap,  that  Don't 
Worry  is  going  to  run  to-day,  I'll  be  hanged  if 
I'd  go  near  the  races.  He  comes  from  a  good 
stable.  Do  you  know,  I've  known  that  horse 
since  he  was  a  colt." 

There  crept  again  that  calm  gleam  in  his  clear 
eyes,  and  the  corners  of  his  mouth  winked  in  a 
smile  as  he  scribbled  a  receipt  for  the  nine  hun- 
dred francs  we  had  given  him.  Not  a  bad  sum 
to  rake  up  from  the  pockets  of  two  painters,  but 
both  Ransom  and  I  had  just  been  paid  —  ac- 
tually paid  for  a  picture  —  and  we  tore  up  the 
receipt,  and  sprinkled  the  bits  over  Jason's 
immaculate  derby  hat,  which  made  Jason  flush 
a  little,  and  finally  burst  out  laughing,  a  thing 
which  he  seldom  did,  not  wishing  to  jar  "those 
who  might  be  sad  about  him  with  mirth  which 
might  be  unwelcome  and  unseemly  at  the  mo- 
ment to  those  who  might  be  sad." 

That  is  about  the  way  Jason  expressed  it  to 
me  one  day  when  we  were  discussing  considera- 
tion to  others,  and  his  quiet,  unassuming  punc- 
tiliousness in  this  respect  was  charming.  You 
see,  Jason  was  a  gentleman,  born  and  bred. 


THE  THOROUGHBRED  181 

And  so  he  went  off  to  the  races,  and  the  re- 
ceipt lay  in  bits  where  he  had  stood.  For  who 
could  take  a  receipt  from  a  thoroughbred  like 
Jason? 

Both  Ransom  and  I  felt  relieved;  neither  of 
us  is  used  to  carrying  around  large  sums.  We, 
too,  might  have  met  a  tearful  lady  in  distress, 
and,  besides,  giving  it  to  Jason  was  like  putting 
it  into  the  bank.  We  knew  it  was  safe,  and 
would  be  returned  to  us  promptly. 

The  following  day,  Sunday,  Jason  disappeared. 

Ransom  came  into  my  studio  with  a  short 
note  from  Jason,  saying  he  had  been  suddenly 
called  to  London  on  a  matter  of  selling  one  of 
his  kennels  of  terriers.  Ransom  was  quite  wor- 
ried. He  even  went  so  far  as  to  call  Jason  a 
Munchausen,  which  was  foolish  in  Ransom,  be- 
cause he  should  have  been  more  observant,  and 
have  —  well,  frankly,  Ransom  never  expected 
to  get  his  money  back,  but  I  did.  It  seems  a 
hard  thing  to  say,  but  those  were  almost  his 
very  words.  I  cursed  Ransom.  I  said: 

"Old  boy,  you  should  have  more  knowledge 
of  character  than  not  to  know  Jason  is  a  thor- 


182    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

oughbred.  Don't  you  know  he's  got  seven 
separate  apartments  in  Paris,  dogs  and  horses 
where  he  wills?" 

"But  where  does  he  live?"  asked  Ransom 
earnestly,  and  so  point-blank  that  I  halted  in 
my  enthusiasm. 

"Well,  I  can't  tell  you  exactly  where  he  lives," 
said  I.  "I've  never  been  indiscreet  enough  to 
inquire,  but  I'll  bet  you  the  interior  of  the  par- 
ticular home  he  chooses  for  a  day  or  a  fortnight 
is  the  home  of  a  gentleman.  You  heard  what 
he  said  about  his  rugs?  His  favourite  rugs  are 
with  him,  mark  my  word,  and  he  has  a  hobby 
for  early  editions,  and  stained  glass,  and  - 

"Have  you  finished?"  interrupted  Ransom. 

"I  tell  you!"  and  he  banged  his  fist  on  the 
table  so  that  the  bottle  of  bubbling  soda  top- 
pled and  reeled  up  steady. 

"He's  a  liar!"  shouted  Ransom.  "To  my 
mind,  our  money's  gone." 

"Hold  on,"  I  said,  "that's  too  strong. 
Didn't  he  say  he'd  given  orders  to  his  solicitor 
to  forward  it  from  London?" 

Ransom  looked  at  me  with  a  pitying  glance. 


THE  THOROUGHBRED  183 

"Solicitor,"  he  half  sneered.  "Yes,  like  hell 
he  has!  Solicitors  after  him,  but  not  his  own. 
Oh,  you.  You  are  extraordinary.  Who  don't 
you  believe  in?  Who  don't  you,  by  gad?  Very 
well,  you'll  see  where  your  confidence  and  en- 
thusiasm will  land  you  some  day.  Into  - 
well,  I'm  making  no  bones  about  it  —  into  even 
crime." 

"Really,"  said  I,  not  at  all  liking  Ransom's 
manner. 

"See  here,  Ransom,"  I  went  on  slowly, 
"we've  been  good  pals  in  the  old  quarter  for 
years  —  ever  since  we  first  worked  together  at 
Julian's,  ever  since  the  day  you  handed  me,  I 
remember,  a  stick  of  charcoal,  and  said:  'Try 
that.  Yours  is  too  soft.'  Remember  it?  No, 
you  don't  believe  in  Jason.  I  do.  It's  sim- 
ple, isn't  it?  And  when  I  believe  in  any  one  no 
one  on  this  side  of  the  Styx  can  convince  me  I  am 
wrong.  I  owe  my  rent,  so  do  you,  with  the 
money  we  sent  Jason  to  the  races  with.  Don't 
worry.  Don't  worry,  I  say.  Jason'  11  pay,  all 
right.  I'll  bet  you  a  very  small  beer  that  the 
solicitor  is  on  his  way  now  from  London  with 


184      THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

the  amount.  That's  a  princely  way  of  squaring 
a  debt,  and  it  would  be  just  like  Jason  to  send 
him." 

The  day  passed  quietly,  and  neither  Ransom 
nor  I  mentioned  Jason.  We  ordered  a  modest 
dinner  together  at  a  Bouillon  Duval,  and  spoke 
of  the  prices  that  had  been  paid  for  some  pic- 
tures, just  as  if  we  might  have  bought  them  if 
the  other  fellow  hadn't. 

Three  days  later  we  were  again  in  the  Pa- 
risian Bar --Ransom  and  I --and  just  then 
Jason  came  in. 

You  may  not  believe  this,  but  "it's  quite 
true,"  as  Jason  says,  and  Ransom  nearly  had  a 
fit,  and  I  was  glad.  Glad  of  Jason's  arrival, 
I  mean,  and  Jason  said: 

"My  dear  old  chap,  I've  just  been  to  London." 

And  I  said: 

"How  are  things  over  there?" 

And  Jason  said: 

"Not  bad.  There's  a  new  show  at  the 
Gayety,  and  the  roast  at  the  Cock  and  Crown 
is  better  cooked  than  last  year. " 


THE  THOROUGHBRED  185 

And  we  said  nothing,  knowing  that  the  cook- 
ing of  the  English  has  no  seasoning  whatever. 

"Well!"  exclaimed  Ransom  pompously .  "Any 
more  news?" 

And  Jason  sat  down.  And  he  did  a  thing 
which  was  simply  splendid.  He  deposited  nine 
hundred  francs  on  the  table. 

And  Ransom  said: 

"My  dear  old  boy!" 

And  I  said: 

"Thank  you,  old  chap." 

And  Ransom  sat  there  like  a  millionaire,  a 
sort  of  type  who  lends  half  a  million  to  a  town, 
and  gives  them  a  library  after  it.  In  fact, 
Ransom  was  silent,  and  for  some  moments  I 
think  he  was  knocked  out  by  the  blow,  and  I 
said  to  Jason: 

st  You've  been  to  London." 

And  Jason  said: 

"Rather." 

And  he  continued:.  "Met  an  old  friend  of 
mine.  Hadn't  seen  him  for  years.  Do  you 
see?  A  doctor  —  quite  a  celebrated  practi- 
tioner—  with  a  fellow  whom  I  knew  in  Africa. 


186    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

You     see,     old     chap,     I've    marched    across 
Africa." 

"Clear  across?" 

:'Yes,  clear  across,  from  Zanzibar  to  Boma. 

"How  many  times?"  I  ventured. 

"Twice." 

And  Ransom  said  nothing. 

"He  had  had  rather  a  blow,  this  old  friend 
of  mine,"  continued  Jason.  ;<You  see,  his 
youngest  daughter  disappeared.  Yes,  she  dis- 
appeared," repeated  Jason. 

"How?"  I  asked  naturally. 

"Well,  it  happened  in  the  country  southwest 
of  Boma,"  Jason  went  on  easily.  "She  was 
the  daughter  of  an  old  friend  of  my  uncle's,  and 
we  were  obliged  to  question  the  camp  —  the 
servants,  and  so  forth.  And,  you  see,  we  sifted 
the  situation  to  the  bottom,  and  there  wasn't 
a  grain  or  even  —  mind  you,  old  fellow  —  a 
vestige  of  suspicion  on  the  servants;  so  we  con- 
cluded that  only  a  gorilla  could  have  eloped 
with  her,  for  there  had  been  one  after  the  plan- 
tains near  us." 

Ransom  leaned  forward. 


THE  THOROUGHBRED  187 

"And  then?"  I  ventured,  seeing  Jason  was 
thirsty. 

"Well,  then,  old  chap,"  continued  Jason, 
"the  father,  you  see,  and  the  girl's  fiance,  and 
the  governor  of  the  province,  and  myself, 
tracked  the  beast.  Oh,  the  evidence  was  con- 
clusive." 

Ransom  leaned  intently  on  his  elbow  —  cyni- 
cally; and  I  lit  a  fresh  cigarette. 

"How  far?"  I  asked. 

"Two  nights  and  a  day,"  said  Jason. 

He  coughed  slightly  through  embarrassment. 

"I  hope  this  doesn't  bore  you,  old  chap,"  he 
added,  after  a  moment's  hesitation. 

"Go  on,"  said  I,  and  Ransom  again  leaned 
forward,  half  convinced. 

"You  see,  it  happened  like  this,"  continued 
Jason.  "The  young  girl  had  been  taken  away 
before  sundown.  She  was  remarkably  pretty 
for  her  years.  Half  the  night  we  hunted  for  her, 
but  to  no  avail.  It  was  not  until  daylight  that 
we  struck  the  fresh  trail  of  a  gorilla,  leading 
southwest  through  the  jungle  —  rather  awkward 
going  on  account  of  the  roots,  which  made  a 


188    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

sort  of  trellis  over  the  swamp  that  lay  some 
fifteen  feet  below,  and  which  we  came  often 
nearly  slipping  into. 

"Finally,  about  noon,  we  managed  to  get 
clear  of  the  swamp,  and,  still  on  his  track,  we 
entered  a  dry  forest.  Here  we  could  follow  the 
beast  far  easier.  He  was  carrying  her  in  his 
arms,  for  I  found  a  bit  of  her  calico  dress  torn 
off  in  a  thorn  bush,  at  a  yard's  height  above  his 
track;  and  every  now  and  then  we  discovered 
her  tracks  —  places  where  he  had  put  her  down 
to  rest.  One  of  her  feet  was  bare,  the  other  still 
held  its  shoe.  Evidently  the  gorilla  had  not 
wounded  her,  for  we  found  no  blood.  There 
have  been  cases,  you  know,  where  they  have 
been  exceedingly  careful  of  their  captives.'* 

"I  can  imagine  the  joy  of  the  father/'  I  said. 

"Rather!"  said  Jason.  "I  never  knew  a 
pluckier  chap  than  the  fiance.  I  don't  think  he 
spoke  more  than  a  dozen  words  during  the  two 
days  and  a  night  we  followed  on  the  beast's 
track.  He  just  bucked  up,  mind  you.  I  dare 
say  I  could  not  have  been  as  brave  as  that  under 
the  circumstances.  She  was  a  beautiful  girl, 


THE  THOROUGHBRED  189 

dark  eyes,  and  hair  that  reached  almost  to  her 
knees." 

"Go  on!"  I  said,  half  brusquely,  for  I  was  ab- 
sorbed in  this  strange  story  of  Jason's.  In  fact, 
spellbound  and  eager  for  the  denouement. 

"And  you  got  him?  And  the  girl  —  was  she 
still  alive?"  inquired  Ransom. 

:<  Yes,"  said  Jason  simply,  "though  she  was  in 
a  dead  faint.  The  beast  was  squatting  before 
her  as  we  crept  up,  and  peeped  through  the  am- 
bush we  had  chosen.  He  had  tied  her  to  a  tree, 
stripping  the  centre  of  a  peculiar  big  leaf  from 
which  he  made  a  cord  that  is  strong  as  elastic; 
and  there  he  sat  in  adoration  before  his  captive. 
He  had  been  careful  when  he  carried  her  not  to 
touch  with  his  great  hands  her  flesh.  She  wore, 
you  see,  a  simple  calico^  gown." 

"Of  what  colour?"  I  asked. 

"White,"  said  Jason,  coughing  slightly. 
"We  gave  the  fiance  the  first  shot.  The  beast 
fell  forward  on  to  his  great  chest,  and,  strange  to 
say,  he  died  with  his  eyes  riveted  on  the  girl. 
She  was  unconscious  when  we  released  her,  and 
more  or  less  in  a  coma  for  a  week;  but  the  gorilla 


190    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

had  fed  her  and  given  her  water,  releasing  her  at 
noon  for  exercise,  and  at  night,  that  she  might 
sleep.  She  told  us  everything  that  had  hap- 
pened —  how  careful  he  was  not  to  wound  her. 
He  was  an  old  male,  almost  as  tall  as  the  average 
man.  I  felt  sorry  for  the  poor  old  beast  when 
our  shots  struck  him." 

"Jason,"  I  said,  "you're  amazing!" 

"Well,  you  see,  old  chap,  life  is  rather  strange, 
isn't  it?"  And  he  smiled. 

Ransom  took  his  leave. 

He  had  to  —  abruptly,  and  he  held  the  guf- 
faw struggling  up  within  him  until  he  reached 
the  door  and  slammed  it  back  of  him. 

As  the  door  closed  on  Ransom,  I  said: 

"Do  you  know  what  I  think  of  you?  I'm 
convinced  you're  a  born  liar.  Those  different 
apartments  of  yours  —  all  bosh !  Where  do  you 
really  live?" 

Jason's  smile  widened. 

"  In  a  small  hotel.  I'm  quiet  there  for  my  work." 

"Work?"  I  exclaimed. 

;<  Yes,  work !  You  see,  old  boy,  I  have  to  work. 
I'm  a  short-story  writer,  and  I  believe  in 


THE  THOROUGHBRED  191 

"In  trying  it  on  the  dog,  eh?"  I  interrupted. 
"So  you  chose  me?" 

"I  dare  say  we  won't  quarrel  over  it,  old 
chap,"  he  replied. 

"Nonsense!"  I  said.  "But  the  gorilla  epi- 
sode?" 

"Oh,  the  gorilla  story  is  true,"  said  Jason,  and 
I  saw  a  look  in  his  eyes  as  if  I  had  wounded  his 
feelings. 

"Forgive  me,  old  boy,"  said  I.  "I  did  not 
mean  to  doubt  you  for  an  instant." 

Jason  knocked  at  my  door  only  yesterday,  so  Marie  told 
me.  He's  a  dead  shot.  I  know  this,  for  I  shot  with  him 
last  October  below  Orleans  in  Sologne.  He  made  three 
separate  doubles  on  partridges  —  a  magnificent  perfor- 
mance considering  the  high  wind.  The  best  gun  in 
France  —  the  Count  C  —  could  not  have  done  better;  I  be- 
lieve in  Jason. 


CHAPTER  SIX 
NATKA 


It  was  late  this  winter  night  when  an  irresistible  desire 
seized  me  to  see  life.  I  had  been  hard  at  work  all  day  in  my 
studio  beneath  the  roofs  in  the  Rue  des  Deux  Amis.  So  I  got 
out  of  my  paint-stained  corduroys,  and  late  as  it  was  got  into  a 
dress  coat  and  headed  for  Maxim's.  F.  B.  S. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

NATKA 

MAXIM'S  was  ablaze  with  light.  As  I  left 
the  chill  fog  outside  this  raw  midwinter 
morning  an  hour  old,  and  entered  the  warmth 
and  gayety  within,  the  vermilion-coated  gypsy 
band  swung  into  a  spirited  waltz  —  a  waltz  ftiat 
made  one's  midnight  blood  tingle. 

"Pardon,  Monsieur,  s'il  vous  plait!"  A  vet- 
eran waiter,  hurrying  with  a  silver  bowl 
of  crushed  ice  and  caviar,  skilfully  avoided 
my  elbow.  At  the  table  beyond,  a  Russian 
archduke  —  a  towering  giant  with  a  blond 

J95 


196    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

beard  —  crashed  his  glass  of  champagne  to  the 
floor. 

The  suave  maUre  d'hotel  apologized.  He  had 
served  in  St.  Petersburg. 

I  strolled  on  down  the  corridor  lively  with  late 
suppers;  past  tables  gay  with  jewelled  beauty; 
past  fair  arms,  fair  necks,  and  the  easy  laughter 
of  women  forced  to  the  rescue  of  their  duller, 
white  waistcoated  escorts.  Young  men  blase  at 
twenty -three,  old  men  young  at  sixty,  immacu- 
lately valeted  old  roues,  connoisseurs  of  pleasure 
at  threescore  and  ten.  On  past  smiles  that  lied, 
smiles  that  told,  the  faint  clean  chink  of  gold, 
given  kisses  and  the  impulsive  pressure  of  idle 
hands;  past  Beauty  and  her  Beast,  petty  quarrels 
and  conspicuous  forgivings;  and  now  past  the 
band  and  into  the  generous  square  supper  room 
beyond,  animated  with  the  flash  of  froufrous, 
silken  ankles,  and  the  glide  of  trim-slippered  feet 
impelled  by  that  throbbing,  irresistible  waltz. 

Toilettes  of  point  lace,  of  silk,  and  of  satin. 
Blonde  and  brunette,  rubies  and  pearls,  white 
teeth  and  scarlet  lips,  warm,  lithe  arms  and 
slender  waists.  The  passing  scent  of  violet  and 


NATKA  197 

mignonette.  The  odour  of  lily  of  the  valley, 
emeralds,  dimples,  and  faultless  sapphires  —  all 
whirling,  eddying  before  the  tables  that  seemed 
to  circle  in  turn  before  the  eyes  of  the  dancers 
moving  in  a  veil  of  aroma  from  fragrant  havanas 
and  gold-tipped  cigarettes.  Eyes  that  gleamed, 
and  dreamed,  and  gleamed  again  in  the  game  of 
love;  and  grew  devilishly  bright  under  the  spell 
of  sparkling,  stinging  golden  wine,  burning  cold. 

And  a  great  wave  of  joy  surged  through  me  as 
I  took  my  seat  and  unfolded  a  spotless  napkin, 
for  I  saw  that  the  world  was  still  alive. 

The  waltz  ended  in  a  wail  of  strings.  Fran- 
gois,  the  mattre  d'hotel  with  the  smug  smile  of  a 
priest,  bent  an  attentive  ear  for  my  order  —  pad 
and  pencil  in  hand. 

"A  dozen  Ostend,  Frangois." 

"Bien,  Monsieur." 

"And  then  —  a  partridge  en  cocotte.  You  will 
please  see  that  there  is  a  little  thin,  crisp  bacon 
of  the  English  with  the  mushrooms." 

"It  is  well  understood,  Monsieur." 

"And  a  salad  of  endives  with  the  partridge." 

"Bien,  Monsieur." 


198    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"Then  we  shall  see  for  the  rest." 

"  Tres  bien,  Monsieur.     Monsieur  is  alone?*' 

I  nodded. 

"Sec  or  demi-sec?" 

"Brut,  nineteen  hundred." 

He  nodded,  and  was  gone. 

A  moment  later,,  as  I  sat  watching  the  entry  of 
three  monocled  youths  and  a  slim  blond  woman 
in  an  ermine  opera  cloak,  I  was  conscious  of  a  fair 
white  hand  and  arm  stretched  across  my  table. 

"Bonjour/"  came  a  frank,  clear  voice,  and  I 
looked  up. 

"Natka!"  I  exclaimed  as  I  grasped  the  fair 
white  hand  —  a  shapely,  aristocratic  hand  with- 
out a  jewel. 

"Ah!    You  nice  Natka!" 

I  would  have  said  more  in  my  enthusiasm,  but 
she  checked  me  with  her  eyes;  and,  as  she  seated 
herself  beside  me  at  the  vacant  table  to  the  right 
touching  mine,  I  caught  sight  of  her  companion. 
As  for  his  name  it  does  not  matter.  He  was 
healthy,  this  young  American,  broad-shouldered 
and  sun-tanned;  and  his  genial,  clean-shaven 
face  suggested  wealth  and  leisure. 


NATKA  199 

As  she  unfolded  her  napkin,  she  leaned  toward 
him,  and  whispered  something  in  his  sunburned 
ear,  evidently  in  explanation  of  our  meeting.  He 
nodded  good-naturedly  in  reply,  his  elbows  on 
the  table  as  he  scanned  the  menu.  Again  Natka 
turned  to  me,  her  clear,  fearless,  gray  eyes  study- 
ing, for  a  moment,  my  own,  and  my  own  taking 
in  at  a  glance  her  handsome  features  —  the 
sheen  of  her  auburn  air,  and  her  tall,  gracious 
figure,which  seemed  to  have  been  poured  into  her 
gown  of  creamy  rose  point  lace,  adorned  with  a 
single  blood-red  rose.  The  gown  of  a  lady  —  they 
are  rare. 

"Ah!  That  is  nice,"  she  said,  with  a  look  of 
ager  interest.  "You  have  made  a  success. 
The  wise  little  supper  of  a  prince.  Am  I  not 
right?"  She  laughed  deliciously.  "I  saw  you 
order  it."  She  laid  her  hand  with  a  friendly 
pressure  on  my  arm.  "And  I  have  seen  last 
year  one  of  your  pictures,"  she  continued,  with  a 
touch  of  friendly  pride.  "In  a  window  on  the 
Rue  Lafitte.  They  do  not  put  one's  pictures 
alone  in  a  window  unless  one  has  made  a  success." 

"Success,   my   dear   Natka?       Oh,   a    very 


200    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

modest  one,  I  assure  you,"  I  laughed  in  return, 
somewhat  embarrassed.  "No,  the  truth  is,  I 
have  just  sold  a  picture.  The  one  you  saw  in 
the  window  came  back,  and  so  I  dropped  in  here 
to  rinse  my  eyes.  We  poor  painters  crave  the 
sight  of  luxury  now  and  then;  the  spectacle  of 
expense  once  in  a  while.  It  is  as  gay  here  as 
ever.  I'm  glad  of  that.  Who  is  the  girl  in 
green?" 

She  raised  her  clear  gray  eyes  where  my  own 
indicated,  and  gazed  across  the  smoke-veiled 
room. 

"The  little  one  with  black  hair  and  the  white 
aigret?" 

"Yes." 

"It  is  La  Belle  Adele.  She  is  with  Cora  de 
Neville  and  the  young  Marquis  de  Tallefont. 
You  must  have  seen  De  Neville  at  the  Folies 
Marigny.  She  trains  a  prg  with  a  little  gilt  whip. 
It  is  quite  stupid.  You  see  young  Tallefont 
everywhere.  His  uncle  is  very  rich.  He  is  a 
very  horrid  old  man."  And  she  turned  to  her 
companion  as  my  oysters  and  champagne  were 
served. 


NATKA  201 

I  had  not  seen  Natka  in  months;  indeed,  not 
since  the  Bal  des  QuatV  Arts.  She  was  strik- 
ingly beautiful  that  night,  for  she  wore  the  black 
lace  wedding  costume  of  a  Russian  girl,  with  a 
curious  peasant's  headdress  of  jewels,  barbaric 
rings,  and  her  bare  feet  in  sandals;  and  explained 
to  me  that  the  gown  itself  was  an  heirloom  from 
her  native  Moscow. 

It  was  the  night  we  trundled  Bardeau's  little 
model  -  -  I  forget  her  name,  and  only  remember 
her  good  humour  —  from  the  Porte  Maillot  to 
the  entrance  of  the  ball  in  a  wheelbarrow.  The 
same  morning,  we  —  savages  of  the  Stone  Age 
and  our  captives  —  went  in  swimming  after  the 
ball  in  the  fountain  of  the  Rond  Point. 

She  was  as  fascinating  to-night  as  ever.  The 
same  Natka,  the  same  good  comrade  whose  in- 
telligence alone  was  a  delight,  for,  like  many 
Russian  women,  she  had  at  twenty-six  years  of 
age  acquired  a  fluent  knowledge  of  English, 
spoke  French  as  well  as  a  Parisienne,  Italian 
enough  to  have  satisfied  a  poet  of  Verona,  and 
once,  when  a  certain  Spanish  Don  —  the  friend 
of  a  Russian  nobleman,  the  brother  of  the  giant 


202    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

who  had  crashed  his  glass  to  the  floor  —  came 
to  Paris,  he  insisted  that  Natka  could  not  be 
purely  Russian,  and  must  have  had  a  Spanish 
grandmother,  for,  as  he  explained,  "her  Sevillian 
accent  was  remarkable." 

The  young  American  now  craned  his  neck  with 
a  nervous  grin,  and  for  an  instant  our  eyes  met 
in  forced  recognition.  Then  he  rose  at  Natka's 
bidding,  and  we  were  duly  presented.  As  we 
reached  over  to  shake  hands,  he  grew  quite  red, 
and  said  genially : 

"Glad  to  meet  you.  Won't  you  join  us? 
Here,  gar-son,  take  the  orders." 

But  I  alluded  to  my  own  supper  forthcoming; 
and  mentioned  to  him  that  the  Baroness  Natka 
Karezoff  and  I  were  old  friends. 

"  Baroness ! "  he  blurted  out,  the  grin  widening. 
"Say,  Bill,  don't  kid  me." 

There  ensued  an  awkward  second  —  a  pause; 
and  we  drank  each  other's  healths  from  our  own 
separate  bottles.  After  all,  if  he  did  not  know 
the  truth  about  Natka  Karezoff,  I  did.  Even 
an  instant  later,  when  the  maitre  d'hdtel  ad- 
dressed her  as  "Madame  La  Baronne,"  and  the 


NATKA  208 

archduke,  still  in  the  best  half  of  his  Cossack 
exhilaration,  stopped  as  he  passed  their  table, 
straightened  soberly  and  bowed,  it  failed  to 
enlighten  the  one  who  had  christened  me  Bill. 

His  geniality  grew  as  he  drained  his  wine;  and 
there  flashed  a  twinkle  in  his  blue  eye  as  he 
leaned  over  toward  me. 

"Bill,"  he  confided,  "I've  got  a  thirst  rare 
enough  to  preserve  in  the  Louvre,  sailing  that 
slick  old  yacht  of  mine  all  day.  Me  for  the  sea, 
all  right,  Natka'  11  tell  you.  Say,  but  we  made 
her  hump  fine  and  dandy.  Quite  a  blow,  girl, 
eh?  For  an  amateur,  but  she's  game,  Natka 
is,"  he  added,  as  the  cellarman  in  his  black  apron 
refilled  his  glass,  crushing  down  a  fresh  quart  in 
its  cooler.  "All  game,  my  boy,"  he  declared, 
with  a  pat  of  pride  on  her  exquisite  shoulder. 
"Thinks  nothing  of  standing  to  the  wheel  her- 
self on  a  two-hour  watch.  Slipped  her  back 
into  Boulogne  last  night  all  by  her  little  lone- 
some, and  not  a  reef  in  her.  My  sailing  master 
says  to  me,  says  he:  'There  ain't  one  woman 
in  a  million  like  mad  —  am.'  You'd  orter  seen 
the  Nargeala  hustle.  She  flew,  all  right.  Natka 


«04    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

was  at  the  wheel.  My  sailing  master  called  it 
epatante  when  we  got  into  the  lee  of  the  break- 
water. See  here,  you  speak  French.  What's 
epatante?" 

"Out  of  sight,"  I  explained. 

"Good  word,  epatante  —  out  of  sight!  Gee! 
He  hit  it!" 

Natka  laughed,  not  being  able  to  grasp  my 
translation  of  slang. 

"Well,  I  guess,"  he  continued  reminiscently, 
kindling  a  fresh  cigarette  over  the  match  Natka 
held  for  him.  "Bad  hole  round  that  break- 
water. Whole  tide  of  the  Channel  runs  through 
there  like  hell.  Lots  of  rocks,  son!  Lots  of 
rocks!  Orter  see  Natka  in  tarpaulins.  Say, 
she's  great!  Stands  up  and  takes  the  salt,  salt 
breeze!  Well,  say,  can  you  beat  it?  And  nary 
a  whimper.  Eh,  girlie?  Nary  a  whimper. 
More  oysters,  Natka?  Say,  you're  all  right." 

The  lifted  her  eyes  to  a  passing  waiter. 

"A  dozen  of  Ostend  —  quick!" 

* '  Bien,  Madame. ' ' 

"No,  my  friend,"  Natka  laughed,  "you  must 
not  get  the  ideas  exaggerated  of  my  bravery.  I 


NATKA  205 

did  very  little,  really.  It  is  he  who  is  brave," 
she  confided  in  my  ear.  "Ah!  It  is  fine  to  be 
able  to  rely  on  some  one  in  an  emergency.  Not 
to  fear,  and  to  know  what  to  do.  Had  it  not 
been  for  him  in  the  big  storm  off  Trouville  — 
very  well,  I  saw  that.  I  was  there.  It  was  not 
gay.  He  was  magnificent.  He  knew  the  Nar- 
geala  better  than  his  crew." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  over?  "  he  asked  me, 
filling  her  glass,  the  wine  seething  over  her  pro- 
testing fingers. 

"About  sixteen  years,"  I  returned. 

" You  don't  say!  Say,  Bill,  if  I'd  been  stowed 
away  in  this  insane  asylum  for  sixteen  years,  a 
free  'bus  would  take  you  to  and  fro  to  see  the 
pansies  growing  over  Willie's  grave  by  now. 
Chicago  for  me  on  the  long  run!  We  got  every- 
thing there  they  got  here  —  only  better." 

The  band  broke  into  a  two-step,  and  again 
the  room  was  in  a  whirl.  Presently  they  left 
me  to  dance,  and,  on  their  return,  the  archduke 
stopped  to  chat  with  Natka  in  Russian,  and  he 
roared  with  laughter  over  something,  and  bowed 
to  us  formally  in  recognition  as  he  took  his  leave, 


206    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

much  to  the  relief  of  the  one  who  had  called  me 
Bill. 

"He  is  very  tall,  is  he  not? "  said  Natka,  turn- 
ing to  me.  "Good  old  Romanoff!  He  was  so 
good  to  my  peasants  —  poor  people.  In  my 
country  house  near  Moscow,  you  know  what  I 
did?  Very  well.  I  had  built  a  large  room  for 
my  peasants  —  a  sort  of  great  hall,  and  with 
big  fires  at  each  end,  and  long  tables  of  good 
clean  wood.  Do  you  not  love  the  smell  of  clean, 
fresh  wood?  I  adore  it!  And  there  they  could 
come  and  have  a  good  dinner  when  they  pleased 
—  whole  families.  Ah,  it  is  not  easy  for  them; 
they  are  so  cruelly  poor,  and  so  ignorant;  and  in 
winter  it  is  terrible  —  always  the  snow.  They 
are  like  overgrown,  unhappy,  children.  And 
they  are  so  grateful." 

"And  the  house  near  Moscow?"  I  ventured, 
pressing  her  hand  in  reverence. 

"Ah,  my  dear  friend ! " 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  a  little  sigh 
escaped  her. 

"Gone,"  she  said  simply.  "My  dogs,  too. 
I  should  not  have  minded  the  house.  There  is 


NATKA  207 

an  end  to  everything  that  is  dear,  that  becomes 
dear.  But  my  dogs,  they  were  my  children." 

For  an  instant  she  lowered  her  fair  head,  cover- 
ing her  eyes  with  her  white,  ringless  hands  —  the 
hands  that  had  steered  the  Nargeala  safe  into 
port.  Then  she  turned  to  amuse  the  one  who 
had  called  me  Bill. 

Presently  she  turned  to  me,  and  said  softly: 

"My  house?  Very  well.  An  old  friend  of 
mine  was  in  great  trouble,  so  many  rubles  he  lost 
at  that  stupid  gambling.  No,  you  don't  know 
him.  His  mother  was  old,  and  his  sister  very 
sad,  for  she  wished  —  what  you  say?  —  to  be 
married." 

And,  without  waiting  for  me  to  reply,  she 
turned  again  to  her  companion,  and  helped  him 
to  a  fresh  slice  of  pate  de  foie  gras. 

For  some  moments  they  talked  earnestly  to- 
gether. She  was  radiant  now,  and  I  saw  he  was 
happy  in  his  genial,  democratic  way. 

I  could  not  help  being  convinced  that  he  was 
a  good  chap;  and,  in  comparison  to  the  blase 
types  and  seasoned  viveurs  in  the  room,  far  more 
to  be  relied  upon.  He  who  was  plain-spoken, 


208    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

sincere,  and  generous  to  a  fault  —  qualities,  I 
knew,  which  appealed  to  Natka  —  and  without 
a  vestige  of  pose  about  him;  that  artificial  varnish 
which  any  Latin  woman  of  the  world  accepts  as 
skin  deep.  In  case  of  real  trouble,  I  should  have 
chosen  the  Chicagoan. 

Maxim's  was  now  full;  and,  with  the  breaking 
of  the  fog-chilled  dawn  without,  it  grew  more  and 
more  hilarious;  and  there  was  some  dancing  at 
four-thirty  that  did  not  happen  at  two. 

It  was  the  hour  evidently  that  Natka  had 
been  waiting  for.  Her  sudden  change  of  manner 
piqued  my  curiosity.  She  ran  her  eyes  over  the 
room,  and  seemed  satisfied.  It  was  the  hour 
when  what  becomes  of  the  remaining  gold  louis 
in  one's  pocket  does  not  much  matter. 

Was  she,  like  the  girl  in  green,  going  to  dance 
on  her  table?  She  could  dance,  when  the  mood 
seized  her,  with  all  the  inborn  grace  and  fire  of 
a  Russian.  It  would  not  have  surprised  me, 
knowing  her  impulsive  temperament.  But  she 
soon  dispelled  my  presentiment,  for  she  spoke 
quietly  to  a  passing  waiter,  who  returned  with 
a  plate  and  napkin.  What  next?  I  wondered, 


NATKA  309 

as  she  skilfully  folded  the  napkin  in  the  form 
of  a  slipper,  placed  it  on  the  plate,  and,  without 
a  word,  rose  from  her  seat;  the  one  who  had 
called  me  Bill  staring  at  her  as  soberly  as  he 
could. 

"Natka!"  I  exclaimed,  my  hand  on  her  arm. 
"What  are  you  going  to  do?  Come,  dear,  sit 
down." 

But  she  only  smiled,  and  said  quite  seriously: 
"Don't  move,  either  of  you." 

And  I,  despite  my  puzzled  wondering,  drew 
aside  my  table  from  her  own  to  let  her  pass. 

"Natka!"  I  repeated,  and  so  did  he;  but  she 
paid  no  heed  to  either  of  us,  and  crossed  the 
room. 

Then,  to  my  amazement,  beginning  at  the 
farthermost  table  in  the  corner,  she  made  the 
round  of  Maxim's  with  her  plate.  The  few 
words  she  addressed  to  each  table  were  inaudible 
to  me;  but  I  could  hear  her  clear  "Thank  you" 
as  francs  and  louis  were  slipped  within  the  dam- 
ask slipper.  She  continued  down  one  side  and 
up  the  other  of  the  corridor,  and  so  on  back  to 
our  side  of  the  big  room. 


210    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

The  slipper  was  coming  our  way  now  —  a 
golden  slipper,  shaded  by  four  crinkled  bank- 
notes of  the  Bank  of  France. 

"Well,  I'll  be  durned!"  muttered  the  sun- 
burned one  from  Chicago.  He  had  grown  as  red 
as  a  poppy,  and  the  collar  of  his  dress  shirt  had 
wilted  from  perspiration. 

The  golden  slipper  was  now  between  us. 

"It  is  for  the  little  maid  of  Lucille  Davries, 
who  has  been  frightfully  burned,"  Natka  ex- 
plained. 

Without  a  word,  the  one  who  called  me  Bill 
felt  in  the  pocket  of  his  piquet  waistcoat,  ex- 
tracted a  hundred  franc  note,  and  tucked  it  in 
the  slipper. 

'Thank  you,"  she  said,  and  turned  to  me. 

I  made  a  mental  note  of  my  bill,  and  con- 
tributed the  remainder  in  my  possession,  modest 
as  it  was.  Then  followed  our  questioning  as  she 
regained  her  seat  between  us. 

"Whose  maid  did  you  say?     How  burned?" 

"By  an  alcohol  lamp,"  Natka  explained  rap- 
idly, as  she  poured  the  contents  of  the  slipper 
into  her  jewelled  purse  and  snapped  the  clasp 


NATKA  Sll 

shut.  "Poor  little  thing!  Is  it  not  terrible? 
They  say  she  will  live.  She  is  horribly  disfigured 
-  a  cripple  for  life.  Gaby  de  Villiers  told  me 
as  we  came  in.  It  happened  Sunday,  heating 
the  curling  irons  for  her  mistress." 

"Who  is  Lucille  Davries?"  I  asked. 

"A  demi-mondaine.  I  do  not  know  her.  She 
is  a  brute.  Her  boudoir  is  burned  out.  She 
flew  into  a  rage,  and  would  have  turned  the  poor 
little  thing  out  of  doors  had  not  the  police 
arrived  and  taken  her  to  the  hospital.  Ah, 
Dieu!  Can  you  imagine  such  a  beast?  The  girl 
is  barely  seventeen  —  an  orphan.  Gaby  gave 
me  her  name.  She  is  at  St.  Louis,  in  the  emer- 
gency ward.  It  shall  be  that  I  go  there  to- 
morrow." 

She  had  spoken  rapidly,  and  with  such  in- 
tensity that  the  colour  crept  to  her  temples. 

It  was  bright  daylight  when  we  left  Maxim's. 

"Bravo!"  they  shouted  as  the  Baroness  Natka 
Karezoff  left  the  room.  "Bravo!  Bravo!" 
until  her  tall,  handsome  figure,  wrapped  in  its 
cloak  of  soft  gray  fur,  disappeared  within  the 
coupe  of  the  one  who  called  me  Bill. 


212    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

As  I  left  them  that  morning,  and  walked  back 
to  my  studio  beneath  the  roofs  in  the  Rue  des 
Deux  Amis,  the  streets  were  deserted,  save  by 
an  occasional  sleepy  garcon  de  cafe  hurrying 
home  to  bed  and  his  family.  At  the  corner  of 
the  Rue  Mogador,  I  encountered  a  ragpicker's 
pushcart,  its  dingy  sacks  piled  high  and  roped. 
The  fat  haul  of  the  night's  pickings  was  guarded 
by  a  girl  of  sixteen,  strong  as  a  terrier,  and 
dressed  from  the  gutter,  her  dishevelled  hair  dull 
with  dust;  the  black  dog,  chained  beneath  the 
cart,  spick  and  span  in  comparison.  It  is  a  short 
walk  in  Paris  from  jewels  to  rags.  Often  it  is 
but  a  step. 

As  I  continued  on  past  the  Trinity,  and  so  on 
up  Montmartre,  my  thoughts  were  on  Natka 
and  the  boy  from  Chicago.  To  be  young  in 
Paris,  good-looking,  with  plenty  of  money,  and 
fascinated  by  a  woman  of  Natka's  experience! 
What  more  could  the  owner  of  the  Nargeala 
desire? 

That  he  appreciated  her  good  qualities  as  a 
comrade  I  was  certain,  and  yet  there  lurked 
within  him,  I  could  see,  a  barrier  of  suspicion. 


NATKA  *18 

This  was  natural.  It  is,  moreover,  racial,  and 
typical  of  nine  out  of  ten  Americans  of  his  kind 
in  Paris.  They  are  amused  as  long  as  a 
woman  amuses  them  to  the  point  which  they 
have  stipulated  to  themselves.  Offer  them 
a  really  serious  amour,  and  they  fight  as  shy 
as  a  close-fisted  bank  president  refusing  a 
loan  to  a  pretty  widow.  This  is  largely  due 
to  inexperience  and  a  meagre  knowledge  of 
Latin  women. 

If  he  had  known  Natka  as  well  as  I  knew  her, 
he  would  have  done  well  to  have  turned  the  for- 
tune of  his  youth  over  to  her  intact  for  safe- 
keeping. She  would  have  saved  most  of  it  for 
him  out  of  the  heyday  of  his  yachting  youth,  and 
returned  to  a  sou  the  remainder  of  the  amount  in 
trust  on  the  day  of  his  inevitable  departure  for 
his  native  land. 

He,  however,  did  not  know  this,  and,  had  I 
suggested  it  to  him,  would  have  first  smiled 
grimly  at  the  idea,  and,  secondly,  pigeonholed 
me  in  his  mind  as  a  crook. 

That  Natka  seriously  liked  him  I  was  also  con- 
vinced. Fond  of  him,  even.  In  love  with  him? 


814    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

Euh!  That  would  be  putting  it  a  little  strong. 
Natka  had  seen  enough  of  love.  What  appealed 
to  her  now  was  comradeship,  which  is  more  last- 
ing than  volatile  love.  Moreover,  I  knew  she 
was  sincere,  or  she  would  never  have  known  the 
Nargeala  or  its  owner. 

Weeks  passed.  Months,  and  I  saw  nothing  of 
them,  and  heard  nothing,  save  an  announcement 
in  the  Paris  edition  of  a  New  York  journal,  whose 
maritime  news  is  reliable,  that  the  Nargeala  had 
touched  at  Capri  bound  south. 

One  afternoon  in  May,  in  the  Bois,  she  flashed 
past  me  in  her  coupe,  drawn  by  a  superb  pair  of 
Russian  horses.  A  glimpse  of  her  only  and  she 
was  gone.  And  I  stood  there  beneath  the  aca- 
cias, feeling  none  too  happy  over  this  unex- 
pected and  tantalizing  glimpse. 

Again  I  saw  her  leave  the  Opera  Comique;  but 
I  lost  sight  of  her  in  the  crowd  hailing  their  car- 
riages. Then,  one  night  in  September,  I  was 
standing  in  the  Gare  St.  Lazare,  awaiting  the 
arrival  of  the  Caen  express,  and  met  the  Chica- 
goan  face  to  face. 


NATKA  215 

He  was  pale  and  haggard,  and  moved  toward 
me,  picking  nervously  at  his  watch  chain. 

"Hello!"  he  stammered  as  we  shook  hands, 
his  hollow,  sunken  eyes  glancing  furtively  about 
him,  with  the  fear  in  them  of  a  cornered 
owl's. 

The  hand  on  the  watch  chain  trembled  visibly. 
The  whistle  from  an  engine  shrieked,  and  he 
started,  jerking  around  on  his  heel  from  sheer 
nervous  depression. 

"  You've  been  ill,"  I  ventured. 

His  lips  tightened  shakily. 

"Come  and  have  a  drink,"  he  returned  gloom- 
ily, his  eyes  for  the  first  time  meeting  my  own. 

"I'm  waiting  for  a  train  due  any  minute,"  I 
said,  by  way  of  refusal.  "It's  a  long  time  since 
I've  seen  you;  not  since  that  night  in  Maxim's 
with-  -" 

But  I  did  not  mention  her  name,  not  knowing 
what  had  occurred  in  the  meantime. 

He  snapped  open  his  cigarette  case,  lighted  a 
plain  Maryland,  hurriedly  took  a  long,  trembling 
whiff,  and  cast  it  aside,  his  eyes  again  searching 
the  station  and  the  crowd  streaming  along  the 


216    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

transatlantic  train  that  lay  beside  us  ready  for 
Cherbourg. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  murmured,  and  pulled  him- 
self aboard  the  Cherbourg  express,  glanced  at 
his  hand  luggage  in  a  second-class  compartment, 
reappeared,  and  joined  me. 

"Sailing?  "I  asked. 

He  nodded. 

"And  the  Nargeala?  I  heard  she  touched  at 
Capri." 

He  looked  at  me  blankly. 

"  She's  no  longer  mine,"  said  he.  Then,  with 
the  ghost  of  a  smile :  "  I'm  hard  hit." 

For  a  moment  he  was  silent,  gazing  at  the 
smouldering  butt  of  his  cigarette,  his  mouth 
twitching. 

"Say!"  he  blurted  out.  "I  want  you  to  do 
me  a  favour.  If  you  ever  see  Natka  again  -  -  I 
—  well  —  I  want  you  to  tell  her  I  understood.  I 
want  you  to  thank  her  for  me  for  all  she  did  for 
me.  I  said  good-bye  to  her  this  morning.  She'll 
understand  it  coming  from  you.  I  want  you  to 
tell  her  I  understood.  Just  say  understood.  And 
thank  her  for  what  she  did  for  me  at  Monte 


NATKA  217 

Carlo.  I  was  a  fool.  I  wouldn't  listen  to  her. 
They'd  have  got  it  all  if  it  hadn't  been  for  her. 
She  begged  me  on  her  knees.  It's  a  —  rotten 
game,"  he  stammered  hoarsely;  "  a  rotten  game." 
And  his  eyes  filled.  "  I  wouldn't  care  if  it  wasn't 
for  dad.  He's  been  hard  hit  in  wheat  —  he's 
done  for." 

I  slipped  my  arm  beneath  his  own,  and  he 
seemed  grateful. 

"You'll  tell  her?  You  won't  forget?"  he 
pleaded  as  we  paced  before  the  train. 

:'You  have  my  word,"  I  replied.  "What  is 
Natka's  address?" 

"I  don't  know.  She's  gone  away,"  he  said, 
in  a  weary  voice.  "She  wouldn't  tell  me  where. 
She  made  me  promise  I  wouldn't  try  to  find  her." 

The  guard  was  slamming  shut  and  locking  the 
compartment  doors. 

"En  voiture!"  he  shouted,  red  with  impor- 
tance. 

There  was  a  backward  bump  and  a  forward 
tension.  He  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  I 
grasped  it  as  he  climbed  in  past  the  knees  of  a 
lady's  maid  and  a  valet  in  a  steamer  cap. 


218    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"Tell  Natka  I  understood"  he  murmured  as 
he  closed  the  door,  and  the  express  slipped  away 
on  her  journey  as  the  headlight  of  the  incoming 
train  from  Caen  glared  into  view. 

All  that  I  have  described  happened  twelve 
years  ago;  and,  although  Maxim's  was  still 
ablaze  nightly  until  gray  dawn,  the  old  life  of 
Paris  had  undergone  a  change.  It  had  grown 
less  intime,  and  more  commercial,  and  many  of 
the  familiar  faces  of  old  comrades  had  disap- 
peared. 

So  had  Natka  Karezoff;  and,  though  my  daily 
life  led  me  over  the  same  trail  through  Bohemia 
it  had  led  me  for  years,  I  heard  or  saw  nothing 
of  her;  and  gradually  she  became  a  vague  mem- 
ory of  the  past.  My  old  haunts  were  now  filled 
with  the  new  generation.  Fashions,  too,  had 
changed.  It  was  an  age  now  of  the  lamp-shade 
hat  and  the  aeroplane.  Even  Montmartre  had 
been  affected  by  the  epidemic  of  up-to-date 
modernism.  The  French-monocled  youth  now 
shot  by,  sunk  in  the  barrel  seat  of  his  hundred 
horsepower  racer.  The  girl  beside  him,  im- 


NATKA  219 

prisoned  in  her  hobble  skirt,  interlarding  her 
French  with  English  sporting  terms.  All  these 
were  in  vogue  now,  and  the  old  life  was 
gone. 

In  Montmartre,  close  to  the  Place  Pigalle,  is 
an  American  bar.  Most  of  the  ladies  who 
frequent  it  at  midnight  possess  a  marquise  tur- 
quoise ring  on  their  manicured  forefinger,  and  a 
fox  terrier  on  a  scarlet  leather  leash,  who  is 
loosed  in  the  early  morning  hours  to  gambol  over 
the  dusty  carpet  with  other  fox  terriers  he  knows 
but  slightly;  and,  as  fox  terriers  will  be  fox  ter- 
riers, is  shrilled  at  by  its  owner  in  the  lamp- 
shade hat  for  his  disobedience.  And  she 
slides  off  her  bar  stool,  and,  catching  him  by 
the  scruff  of  the  neck,  proceeds  to  chastise 
him  accordingly  as  she  had  read  in  her  dog 
book. 

The  room  to-night  was  less  lively  in  its  forced 
gayety  than  usual,  being  the  evening  after  the 
steeplechase  at  Auteuil,  and  life  to  most  of  its 
habitues  seemed  less  worth  living  than  ever. 

I  sat  on  the  end  of  the  row  of  high  stools  be- 
fore the  bar  talking  to  Emile,  the  barkeeper,  over 


220    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

the  non-appearance  of  that  absent-minded  friend 
of  mine,  Joinville,  the  painter,  who  had  stipulated 
the  bar  a  half  hour  past  as  a  meeting  place;  and 
I  was  still  waiting  with  my  back  to  the  fox  ter- 
riers and  their  gossiping  owners.  Never  wait 
for  Joinville,  he  has  the  memory  of  a  moth. 

As  Emile  drained  a  sweet  Martini  through  a 
tea  strainer,  I  accidentally  touched  the  elbow  of 
the  woman  on  the  stool  beside  me. 

"Pardon,  Madame,"  I  apologized,  without 
turning  my  head. 

Emile  slipped  the  wet  Martini  to  the  third 
stool,  added  a  straw,  and  wiped  his  fat  pink 
hands. 

As  I  reached  for  a  match,  my  eye  glanced  over 
the  figure  of  the  woman  next  to  me  whose  elbow 
I  had  touched.  The  broad-brimmed  hat  of 
rough  blue  felt  that  hid  her  face  was  faded,  out 
of  shape,  and  trimmed  with  two  artificial  roses 
that  had  once  been  red.  She  sat  with  her  elbows 
on  the  bar,  her  body  wrapped  in  a  worn  ulster, 
the  pocket  next  to  me  torn  down  at  the  seam.  I 
caught  sight  now  of  her  ringless  hands,  and  made 
a  mental  note  of  her  age.  Then  I  glanced  at  her 


NATKA  221 

feet  resting  on  the  rung  of  the  stool,  and  saw 
that  the  yellow  shoe  next  to  me  had  been 
patched. 

Then,  for  some  unaccountable  awkwardness 
on  my  part,  over  went  the  remnant  of  my  bottle 
of  soda,  and  she  tilted  back  away  from  the  drip, 
and  turned. 

"Ah,  Madame!"  I  exclaimed.  "I  demand  a 
thousand  pardons." 

The  smile  with  which  she  had  straightway 
forgiven  me  now  faded  to  a  swift,  searching  look, 
and  I  gazed  at  her  —  at  her  gray  eyes,  at  her 
auburn  hair  streaked  with  gray. 

"Natka!"Icried. 

"  Mon  Dieu!"  she  replied  wonderingly. 

Gradually  her  face  became  radiant,  a  flush 
crept  to  her  temples.  She  faced  me,  putting 
out  both  her  hands.  I  grasped  them,  and  held 
them  trembling  in  my  own. 

"Natka!"  I  repeated,  in  my  astonishment. 

"Hush!"  she  whispered. 

"Let  us  get  out  of  this.  I  feel  faint.  Come! 
Come  now ! "  she  murmured. 

She  slipped  from  her  stool,  and,  before  the  rest 


222    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

of  the  room  had  remarked  it,  we  were  in  the 
street. 

"Stand  here  in  the  shadow,"  she  pleaded 
faintly;  and  in  the  shadow  she  fell  to  sobbing, 
while  I  patted  the  shoulder  beneath  the  worn 
ulster  until  she  ceased  crying.  And  when  she  had 
stopped  before  the  mirror  of  a  closed  cake  shop, 
and  wiped  her  tear-stained  face  and  adjusted  the 
faded  hat,  she  bravely  smiled. 

"Come,"  I  insisted,  "and  have  some  supper. 
We  must  talk.  To  Tabarin's,"  I  suggested, 
halting  as  we  turned  dowrn  the  Rue  Pigalle. 

"No,  not  there,"  she  whispered.  "They 
would  not  admit  me  in  there."  She  leaned  close 
to  me,  gripping  my  arm,  still  whispering  a  strange, 
hoarse  whisper,  as  if  she  were  afraid  of  her  own 
voice.  "Ah,  I  am  so  glad!  So  very  happy!" 
she  breathed. 

Again  I  insisted  on  a  restaurant.  She  stopped, 
and  said  in  the  mysterious  voice  of  a  child  sug- 
gesting an  adventure: 

"Do  you  know  what  I  should  like?  Some 
sauerkraut,"  she  whispered  eagerly,  her  voice 
gaming  strength.  "Come,  I  will  show  you." 


NATKA  223 

She  laughed  nervously. 

"  Oh !  Such  good  sauerkraut  they  have  there. 
It  is  not  far  to  walk  —  at  the  Lion  D'Or.  You 
are  not  angry?  Tell  me,  you  are  not  angry?  It 
was  not  nice  of  me  to  ask.  It  is  not  far.  No,  no, 
not  a  fiacre !  It  is  foolish  to  spend  for  that. 
Your  hat  is  old.  You  are  poor.  It  is  not  dear, 
the  sauerkraut  —  seventy -five  centimes  the  por- 
tion; and  they  give  you  plenty.  And  four  sous 
to  the  waiter  —  you  shall  see." 

And  at  the  Lion  D'Or  I  wrung  the  truth  out 
of  her  over  the  steaming  sauerkraut.  The  de- 
tails much  of  which  I  refuse  to  write.  It  was  a 
story  from  her  lips,  a  simple  story  of  kindness  to 
others  —  massive  in  its  truth,  inevitable  in  its 
end;  and  it  was  the  bitter  end  that  she  now  en- 
dured without  a  murmur. 

It  is  less  hard  to  find  a  man  hungry  than  a 
woman.  The  Archduke  Romanoff  was  dead; 
and,  when  I  suddenly  recalled  and  gave  a  mes- 
sage from  the  past,  she  "understood";  and  I 
feared  for  a  moment  she  was  again  about  to  cry. 

"You  saw  him?  Yes,  it  is  true  what  you  say. 
You  saw  him  that  night  when  he  went  away?" 


824    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

she  demanded,  with  all  the  intensity  of  her  being. 
"And  he  told  you  I  would  understand.  I  tried 
so  hard  to  make  him  understand  —  to  under- 
stand that  he  must  go,  that  he  must  never  see 
me  again.  Ah,  my  poor  Dick !  My  poor  Dick ! " 

And  for  the  third  time  she  hung  eagerly  on  my 
words,  making  me  repeat  slowly  all  that  he  had 
said,  even  to  his  manner  and  the  way  he  looked 
—  a  wreck.  But  I  did  not  tell  her  how  far  his 
nerves  were  gone,  clear  as  the  memory  came 
back  to  me  now. 

"You  loved  him,"  I  said  when  she  had  grown 
calmer;  and  there  came  a  strange,  broken  look 
in  her  eyes,  and  her  tired  face  dropped  in  her 
hands,  her  nails  pressing  her  flushed  temples. 

For  some  moments  she  did  not  speak. 

"Then  one  lived,"  she  said  slowly,  looking 
up,  "and  now  it  takes  so  long  to  die.  I  tried  to 
save  him,"  she  went  on,  brushing  away  her  tears. 
"That  last  week  at  Monte  Carlo,  I  drew  from 
my  Paris  bank,  I  wired  to  Petersburg,  to  poor 
Romanoff,  that  was  the  hardest  —  and  what  I 
had  sent  for  went  with  his  own.  Ah,  Dieu,  it  is 
so  cruel,  so  stupid  —  that  horrid  gambling.  It 


NATKA  225 

was  that  last  night  of  baccarat  that  we  quarrelled. 
He  was  blind  with  anger,  and  out  of  his  head. 
He  accused  me  of  being  a  thief,  for  I  had  taken 
from  him  fourteen  hundred  francs.  It  was  well 
I  did;  it  paid  his  voyage  home." 

The  two  girls  opposite  our  table  in  the  corner 
with  pink  plumes  had  gone.  We  were  alone. 
The  shirt-sleeved  proprietor  was  yawning  as  he 
carved  a  ham. 

It  was  gray  dawn. 

Natka  glanced  at  the  clock  hanging  above  the 
desk. 

"My  train  will  leave  in  an  hour,"  she  said. 
'You  must  not  wait,  you  are  tired." 

"Train!  My  dear  old  friend,  and  to  where, 
may  I  ask?" 

She  was  her  old  self  again,  warmed  by  the 
food,  comforted,  no  doubt,  by  the  hazard  of  our 
meeting  and  our  long  talk  of  the  past. 

"To  Argenteuil,"  she  announced.  "No?  Did 
I  not  tell  you?  We  have  had  so  much  to  say. 
Yes,  that  is  where  I  live  —  Amelie  and  I.  You 
remember  Amelie  who  was  burned?  "  And  then, 
with  the  same  mysterious,  childlike  eagerness, 


226    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

she  whispered  again:  "We  have  a  little  house. 
Oh,  very  small !  Three  rooms,  and  a  roof ! "  She 
laughed  as  she  described  it.  "And  then  there  is 
the  garden  for  my  chicks.  They  are  adorable  - 
so  fuzzy  —  so  little.  They  are  a  great  care;  but 
one  must  live,  and  in  winter  our  eggs  bring  three 
sous  apiece." 

She  mistook  the  gaze  in  my  eyes. 

"Forgive  me,"  she  said.  ;<You  are  tired.  It 
will  not  be  long  now  to  wait  for  my  train.  You 
must  leave  me  and  go  to  bed." 

"No,"  I  protested.  "I  shall  leave  you,  and 
you  shall  go  to  bed.  Here  is  my  studio  key.  It 
is  the  same  brown  door  at  the  head  of  the  stairs. 
You  see,  I  have  been  faithful  to  my  nest  beneath 
the  roofs.  I  have  not  moved.  There  is  the  big 
divan  in  the  little  room  off  the  studio.  Do  you 
remember?" 

But  she  hesitated. 

"Amelie  will  worn-.  And,  besides,  it  is  not 
right  for  me  to  disturb  you." 

"Nonsense!"  I  returned.  "Vantin  is  at 
Juvisy.  He  has  the  studio  below  me.  He  left 
me  his  key." 


NATKA  227 

She  hesitated  no  longer. 

I  waited  until  noon,  entered  my  studio  by  the 
back  door,  and  rapped  gently  at  her  own.  No 
response. 

"Natka!"  I  called;  but  the  room  beneath  the 
roofs  was  silent. 

I  turned  the  knob,  and  pushed  the  door  ajar. 
She  was  lying  on  the  divan  fully  dressed.  The 
collar  of  the  worn  ulster  turned  up  over  her  hair, 
damp  from  the  stupor  of  profound  slumber,  a 
rug  thrown  over  her  feet.  I  tiptoed  in  and  leaned 
over  her,  listening  to  her  regular  breathing. 

Poor  dear!  She  was  no  longer  beautiful;  but 
she  was  beautiful  to  me.  Her  small,  wrinkled 
leather  purse  lay  on  the  table.  It  was  indiscreet 
of  me;  but  I  pressed  its  flat  side  with  my  thumb. 
Two  solitary  sous  grated  together  within. 

And  there  I  sat,  and  watched  the  Baroness 
Natka  Karezoff  until  long  after  one,  when  she 
stirred,  awakened  with  a  start,  rubbed  her  eyes, 
remembered,  and  smiled  "Bon jour" 

You  may  hunt  through  Argenteuil  to-day,  but 
you  will  not  find  her,  for  she  lives  in  a  comfort- 


228    THE   STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

able,  modest  little  apartment  in  Montmartre. 
Neither  the  street  nor  the  number  concerns 
you.  Certain  painters  had  passed  the  plate 
-  for  Amelie.  Natka  would  not  have  it  other- 
wise. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 
"GABY" 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 
"GABY" 

HHHE  rain,  this  raw  April  morning,  thrashed 
••*  over  my  studio  roof  in  the  Rue  des  Deux 
Amis  and  sent  the  chattering  Parisian  spar- 
rows to  shelter  in  the  warm  corners  between  the 
chimney  pipes  that  creaked  and  whined  as  their 
hooded  tops  boxed  the  compass  with  every  fresh 
gust  of  wind.  Miniature  torrents  gurgled  in 
their  rushing  course  beneath  the  worn  gables. 
The  water  swept  in  sheets  over  my  dust-dimmed 
skylight  so  there  was  no  need  to  draw  its  curtain 
to  screen  that  good  little  model  of  mine,  Marie, 

231 


232    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

who  was  posing  beneath  it  —  close  to  the  stove, 
in  fact  —  half  her  trim  young  figure  bathed  in 
its  rosy  glow. 

There  had  been  two  welcome  knocks  at  my 
studio  door  this  dreary  morning:  at  nine  the 
confident,  gentle  "tap-tap"  of  Marie's  small 
gloved  hand,  and  half  an  hour  later  the  rousing 
thump  of  Vautrin's  big  fist  that  made  the  panel 
tremble. 

"Entrez!"  I  shouted  to  this  lucky  dog  of  a 
painter  just  back  from  the  Riviera,  where  for 
two  months  he  had  been  basking  in  sunshine. 
His  big  voice  broke  the  silence  of  the  studio  as 
he  entered. 

"Bonjour,mon  enfant!"  he  called  to  Marie. 

"  Bon  jour,  Monsieur  Vautrin,"  returned  Marie, 
lifting  her  dark  eyes  with  the  smile  of  a  gamine, 
though  she  held  her  pose  firmly. 

Some  of  the  lazy  sunshine  of  Mentone  and 
Monte  Carlo,  of  Nice  and  Cannes,  was  still  in 
Vautrin's  bones,  for  he  stopped  halfway  across 
the  studio  floor  —  filled  his  big  chest  with  a  deep 
breath  —  straightened  to  his  full  height  —  shut 
his  eyes  tight,  and  yawned  without  apologizing. 


"GABY"  233 

There  is  something  about  this  irrepressible 
bohemian,  with  his  merry  gray  eyes,  his  strong 
features  and  his  hair,  which  is  sandy  and  curly, 
that  resembles  a  Scotchman.  His  father  was 
French,  however,  and  his  mother  English,  and 
both  languages  he  speaks  as  easily  as  he  laughs. 

"What  news,  mon  vieux?"  he  asked  at  the 
end  of  the  yawn,  glancing  at  my  canvas. 

"Nothing  of  much  account,"  said  I;  "a  note 
from  Duclos  —  wants  me  to  do  a  pastel  of  Gaby 
de  Villiers  for  his  June  number  of  Paris  en  Scene. 

"GabydeVilliers,eh?" 

"She's  at  the  Folies  Bergeres,"  I  continued. 
"In  the  New  Revue.  She's  the  new  beauty. 
Ever  seen  her?  Tall  brunette.  Was  in  the  Re- 
vue last  season  at  the  Scala;  small  part  I  believe 
at  the  Gaiete  Rochechouart  the  year  before." 

"Smaller  part  than  that  before,"  remarked 
Vautrin  dryly  as  he  felt  for  his  pipe  in  the  pocket 
of  his  paint-stained  corduroy  trousers.  "She 
used  to  bring  my  wash  —  fact  —  when  I  had 
that  old  barrack  of  a  studio  in  the  Rue  Lepic. 
Used  to  keep  her  fete  day  shoes  in  my  wood- 
box;  her  mother  was  a  vegetable  woman  and 


234    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

didn't  believe  in  luxuries.  Pretty  as  the  devil 
when  she  was  a  kid.  Dugay  made  a  portrait 
of  her.  Remember  it  at  the  Salon?  Full-length 
figure  with  a  green  scarf  -  -  that  was  Gaby.  It's 
amazing  how  the  stage  reaps  its  beauty  from  the 
gutter." 

"Nearly  all,"  I  added  absently,  as  I  blocked 
in  Marie's  young  head  and  shoulders,  while  Vau- 
trin  cast  his  burnt  match  clear  of  my  best  studio 
rug,  and,  having  first  carefully  removed  Marie's 
clothes  from  the  divan,  much  to  that  little 
model's  relief,  for  her  hat  was  on  top  of  them, 
flung  himself  full  length  among  the  threadbare 
pillows  and  declared  that  no  one  not  actually 
starving  could  work  on  a  day  like  this  —  in  this 
sacre  light,  when  you  could  not  tell  the  difference 
between  burnt  umber  and  Vandyke  brown. 

"Just  left  Stimson  at  Monte  Carlo,"  Vautrin 
announced,  as  I  chucked  on  a  fresh  shovelful  of 
coal  and  went  back  to  my  canvas. 

"Who?" 

"Little  old  Stimson  —  you  remember  him  — 
Stimson,  who  had  the  white  yacht  and  the  blue- 
tiled  villa  at  Trouville?" 


"GABY"  235 

"Oh,  y-e-s;  Stimson  —  the  fellow  whose  yacht 
we  used  to  paint?"  I  laughed. 

"Same  Stimson,"  chuckled  Vautrin.  "Re- 
member when  we  used  to  put  in  the  yacht  and 
get  old  what's-his-name,  the  jeweller  on  the 
corner  of  the  quay,  to  stick  it  in  his  window. 
Then  Stimson  would  come  along  and  buy  it. 
Thought  a  lot  of  that  yacht.  Sort  of  a  pet  with 
him.  Remember  ? ' ' 

"As  if  any  of  us  could  ever  forget  him,"  I 
murmured,  recalling  a  blue  Monday  when  Stim- 
son had  saved  me  from  bankruptcy  by  way  of 
the  same  jeweller's  window.  "So  you  saw  Stim- 
son, eh?  How  does  the  little  old  thoroughbred 
look?" 

"Hasn't  changed  a  bit,"  continued  Vautrin 
with  his  rapid  enthusiasm  when  anything  or  any- 
body interests  him.  "Short  and  dapper  and 
polite  as  usual.  Gray  as  a  rat,  of  course.  But 
then  he  must  be  getting  close  to  sixty.  I  tell 
you,  little  old  Stimson  is  one  of  those  unassum- 
ing philanthropists  you  take  off  your  hat  to; 
and  the  soul  of  modesty  with  all  his  wealth. 
Still  going  the  pace.  Told  me  he  never  had  a 


236    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

sick  day  in  his  life  —  when  you  think  what  Stim- 
son  has  lived,  bought,  and  seen,  in  his  quiet 
way.  Never  had  an  enemy  either.  'Wouldn't 
have  'em,'  he  used  to  tell  me  —  when  you  come 
to  think  even  of  the  people  he's  helped,  and  I 
mean  by  people  any  one  he  happened  to  come 
across  in  distress.  He's  had  plenty  of  oppor- 
tunity at  Monte  Carlo.  He's  one  of  the  old 
guard  down  there.  Remembers  Monte  Carlo 
when  it  began,  and  the  only  way  you  could  get 
there  was  by  carriage  or  a  tub  of  a  boat  from 
Nice." 

Snap  went  a  stick  of  charcoal,  and  I  nodded  to 
Marie  to  rest. 

"  Swindled,  of  course,"  Vautrin  went  on.  "He 
expected  that;  bamboozled  by  touts,  lied  to  by 
vauriens!  'always  believed  in  a  hard-luck  story,' 
he  used  to  say,  and  that  nobody  was  really  bad. 
Lot  of  philosophy  in  that,  eh?  You  see  it's  al- 
most a  creed  with  Stimson  to  be  generous  to  the 
needy  and  tolerant  to  the  fool. 

"'Haven't  we  all  got  our  faults?'  he  used  to 
say.  'Why,  certainly.'  Never  gambles  him- 


"GABY"  237 

self.  Just  likes  to  stroll  around  the  tables  and 
watch  the  game  and  is  satisfied  with  the  best 
cooking  in  France,  a  light  dry  champagne,  and 
a  pleasant  good  morning.  Sort  of  religion  with 
a  maltre  d'hotel  to  take  good  care  of  Stimson. 
There's  something  pathetic  in  his  brightening 
smile  and  the  twinkle  in  his  small,  keen  eyes  when 
he's  pleased  —  when  any  little  favour  that  is 
sincere  is  shown  him. 

" '  Well,  now,  wasn't  that  nice  of  them?'  he'll 
remark  quietly  when  the  maltre  d'hotel  has  saved 
his  favourite  table  for  him  on  a  rush  day.  He's 
saved  a  few  people  himself,  Stimson  has  —  even 
from  suicide.  I  never  knew  a  demi-mondaine 
yet  who  didn't  lose  her  "head  when  her  last  louis 
was  gone.  You'll  see  the  sudden  terror  leap 
in  their  eyes  then." 

"I've  seen  it,"  I  interposed  as  I  sharpened  a 
fresh  stick  of  charcoal.  "It  isn't  a  pleasant 
sight.  Their  last  louis  gone,  return  ticket 
pawned,  and  every  mail  bringing  a  fresh  threat 
over  the  debts  they  have  left  in  Paris." 

"Of  course.  Same  hopeless  old  story,"  Vau- 
trin  continued.  "Then  Stimson  would  come  to 


238    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

the  rescue  —  quietly  behind  her  chair.  All  he'd 
say  in  his  low,  punctilious  voice,  that  always 
seems  to  have  a  note  of  hesitancy  in  it  through 
sheer  timidity,  was,  *  Well,  well,  little  girl'  (he 
called  'em  all  little  girls,  whether  they  were  nine- 
teen or  fifty-nine);  'well,  well,  that's  too  bad. 
As  I  say,  there's  good  and  bad  luck,  only  you 
never  know  which  way  it's  coming.'  That  was 
a  little  joke  of  his.  He  had  four  little  jokes  like 
these,"  Vautrin  explained,  "  and  he'd  forgive  you 
if  you  didn't  laugh  at  any  of  'em.  '  Well,  well, 
little  girl,'  and  she'd  go  white  as  chalk  and 
tremble  so  I've  seen  the  croupier  lift  his  quick 
eye  to  the  chef  de  partie  in  case  she  fainted. 
They  do  not  like  a  scene  down  there,  you  know. 
"I  remember  when  I  was  a  boy,'"  Stimson 
would  proceed  quietly-  'the  same  thing  hap- 
pened to  me,'  and  he'd  slip  five  hundred  or  even 
a  thousand  francs  in  her  lap  and  she'd  get  to  her 
feet  and  leave  —  never  with  Stimson  —  she  had 
too  much  respect  for  him  for  that,  but  she  was 
more  grateful  to  him  than  some  women  are  to 
the  man  who  has  just  saved  them  from  drown- 
ing." 


"GABY"  239 

For  some  moments  Vautrin  lay  smoking  in 
silence. 

I  had  known  Vautrin  to  eulogize  before — 
generally  apropos  of  some  new-found  model  of 
his  or  some  "fairer-than-all-the-rest"  he  had  met 
by  chance  and  had  fallen  under  the  hypnotic 
spell  of  her  fascination.  His  eulogies,  however, 
were  confined  to  heroines,  not  heroes ;  glorifying 
for  my  especial  benefit  a  seasoned  old  viveur 
like  Stimson  was  new  to  me. 

"Good    old    thoroughbred!"    I    exclaimed, 
breaking  the  silence,  while  Marie  slipped  an  old 
ducking  coat  of  mine  from  her  shoulders  and 
resumed  her  pose. 

Vautrin  slowly  rose  on  his  elbow  and  laid 
aside  his  pipe.  His  continued  silence  made  me 
for  the  moment  forget  my  drawing  and  look  up 
at  him  questionally. 

"See  here!  This  is  strictly  entre  nous"  he 
blurted  out  as  he  caught  my  glance.  "If 
I've  been  extravagant  in  my  praise  of  Stim- 
son —  now  see  here,  I  know  you  —  you're 
a  mule  when  it  is  a  question  of  persuad- 
ing you  to  paint  anything  or  anybody  when 


240    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

the  subject  does  not  precisely  fit  your  sense  of 
the  artistic." 

"Me?" 

"Yes,  you.  I'm  not  a  portrait -painter  or  I 
wouldn't  be  here  talking  like  a  parrot."  Vau- 
trin  sat  up  and  flung  out  his  long  hand  with  a 
vibrant  gesture.  "You  might  be  rich  by  this 
time  if  you  hadn't  been  as  stubborn  as  a  mule 
about  refusing  to  paint  people  who  didn't  ap- 
peal to  you.  You're  half  the  time  painting  some 
aesthetic  girl  for  nothing,  simply  because  her  dis- 
position, or  complexion,  or  the  poetry  in  her 
eyes,  or  the  high  lights  in  her  hair  captivates 
your  senses  of  the  artistic.  Now,  don't  go  up  in 
the  air." 

"Never  was  calmer  in  my  life,"  I  returned. 
"  What's  up  ?  Out  with  it !  But  I  warn  you  if  it's 
a  case  of  some  fat  bourgeoisie's  wife  you've  met 
who  insists  on  being  portrayed  in  her  wedding 
dress  with  all  the  jewellery  of  twenty  years  of 
married  life  festooned  upon  her,  I  balk." 

"  Wrong ! ' '  cried  Vautrin.  "  What  I  want  you 
to  do  is  to  paint  Stimson  —  yes,  Stimson  —  just 
little  old  Stimson;  just  as  he  is,  and  you  won't 


"GABY"  241 

charge  him  a  sou  for  it  either.  Hasn't  he  given 
enough  to  others?  Who's  ever  given  him  any- 
thing? And  he's  got  his  head  set  on  having  him- 
self painted." 

"Of  course  I'll  paint  him,"  I  declared. 

"Oh!  he  was  very  discreet  about  it.  That's 
why  I  say  it's  entre  nous" 

"I'll  do  my  level  best,"  I  promised.  "Just 
Stimson  —  that's  the  idea.  By  George!  I'll 
make  a  salon  picture  of  him!" 

"  No,  you  won't,"  replied  Vautrin.  "  Stimson's 
portrait  is  destined  for  a  boudoir,  not  a  salon." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  little  old  man  Stim- 
son's in  love?     Who  with,  mon  Dieu?     And  at 
his  age!" 
N" You're  not  to  mention  it  if  I  tell  you?" 

I  raised  a  hand,  grimy  with  charcoal,  under 
oath. 

"  Gaby,"  announced  Vautrin. 

"The  devil  you  say?  So  Stimson's  in  love 
with  Gaby?" 

"Madly;  and  when  an  old-timer  like  Stimson 
falls  in  love  it's  serious. 

"Poor  Stimson!"  I  sighed. 


242    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"That's  not  our  affair,"  said  Vautrin.  "Be- 
sides, if  Gaby  pleases  him  —  and  now,  mon 
vieux,  as  you're  not  such  a  mule  as  I've  known 
you  to  be,  both  of  you  come  to  luncheon.  Eh, 
la  gosse," he  called  to  Marie,  "a  dejeuner!" 

"Hold  on!"  I  cried.  "The  glasses,  Marie, 
and  the  bottle  of  port.  Let's  drink  little  old 
Stimson's  health." 

"He'll  be  here  next  week,"  said  Vautrin  as 
we  stood  in  our  overcoats  beside  our  empty 
glasses  while  Marie,  who  had  sipped  her  port 
slowly,  now  hurried  into  her  things. 

The  second  act  of  the  winter's  Revue  at  the 
Folies  Bergeres  was  in  full  swing  as  I  passed  the 
following  night  through  the  small  iron  door  lead- 
ing to  the  stage. 

"Mademoiselle  de  Villiers?"  I  inquired. 

"Third  dressing-room  to  the  right,  Monsieur, 
on  the  second  flight,"  confided  the  red-haired 
callboy  as  he  side-stepped  out  of  the  way  of 
three  scene  shifters  carrying  a  papier-mache 
throne,  dodged  past  a  girl  acrobat  in  purple 
tights  wiping  the  rosin  dust  from  her  hands,  and 


"GABY"  243 

sprang  up  the  spiral  iron  stairway  as  I  followed 
him. 

" Mesdames  en  scene!"  he  shouted  along  the 
heated  corridor  leading  to  the  dressing-rooms, 
his  sharp  command  echoing  down  the  narrow 
hallway  whose  vitiated  air  reeked  of  warm  flesh, 
grease-paint,  and  perfumery. 

Here  and  there  along  the  line  he  threw  a  door 
open  and  shouted  his  command  within.  He 
knew  the  lazy  ones,  and  his  responsibility  was 
great. 

I  sat  watching  Gaby  while  she  patted  the 
swansdown  puff  over  her  firm  white  neck  and 
arms,  watched  her  intently  while  she  gave  a  final 
touch  of  blue  to  the  lids  of  her  languorous  sensual 
eyes  —  eyes  that  seemed  to-night  deep  violet 
and  unfathomable  as  a  cat's,  their  pupils  di- 
lated and  brilliant  with  belladonna.  Studied  her 
superb  figure  at  my  ease  while  I  blocked  in  her 
salient  lines  in  my  sketchbook,  the  tilted  lev- 
elled mirror  reflecting  her  blue-black  hair  glit- 
tering with  jewels;  studied  the  curve  of  her  lips 
half  open  in  repose,  and  the  pearly  whiteness  of 
her  exquisite  teeth.  In  the  silence  of  the  stuffy 


244    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

dressing-room  hung  with  froufrous  and  tights, 
with  the  jewelled  headdresses  and  gay  bodices 
that  the  Revue  required,  I  glanced  up  now  and 
then  as  I  drew,  at  her  maid,  an  earnest,  black- 
eyed  girl  whose  active  fingers  were  busy  with 
the  top  hook  of  her  mistress'  corsage;  nothing 
could  have  been  in  stronger  contrast  than  this 
honest  peasant  girl  hooking  up  Folly. 

This  adorable  devil  who  once  had  brought 
Vautrm's  wash,  and  had  kept  her  fete  day  shoes 
hid  in  his  wood-box,  was  no  longer  the  same 
being.  Even  her  skin  was  metamorphosed  to 
warm  ivory.  She  must  have  now  and  then  re- 
called her  youth  as  an  accident,  like  a  nightmare 
or  a  bad  dream.  Her  beauty  alone  linked  with 
a  will,  as  irresistible  as  her  lips,  had  reached  for 
her  the  gamut  of  luxury.  Briefly,  she  was 
physical  perfection,  well  gowned,  well  fed,  well 
jewelled.  Even  old  Parisians,  seasoned  con- 
noisseurs of  the  demi-monde,  stopped  to  admire 
her  as  she  passed  in  her  smart  victoria.  What 
more  could  she  desire?  A  true  friend,  poor  but 
honest.  She  would  have  laughed  at  you. 

"Tell  Duclos  I  shall  want  a  column  with  the 


"GABY"  245 

portrait,"  she  remarked  without  turning  her 
head  as  I  rose  to  take  my  leave. 

"  Bonsoir,  Monsieur." 

"  Bonsoir,  Madame,"  I  returned  as  she  bent 
to  rouge  her  lips. 

"Friday  if  you  wish,"  she  added.  "I  shall 
not  be  free  to  pose  for  you  before.  You  know 
my  address  —  59  bis,  Avenue  du  Bois." 

"It  is  understood,  Madame,"  I  replied,  clos- 
ing the  door  behind  me  and  descending  the  spiral 
stairs,  crowded  now  with  a  bevy  of  gray  doves 
in  pink  satin  slippers,  with  Eve  at  my  elbow, 
and  Adam,  a  fat,  perspiring  comedian,  with  his 
wig  in  his  hand,  at  my  heels.  I  was  conscious 
of  a  strong  odour  of  peppermint.  Adam  was 
chewing  a  cough-drop,  one  of  which  he  gener- 
ously tempted  Eve  with  as  I  regained  the  busy 
stage.  As  I  opened  the  small  iron  door  leading 
to  the  auditorium  I  drew  back  to  make  way  for 
a  short,  dapper  figure  whose  gray  hair  was 
shadowed  by  an  opera  hat. 

"Ah,  pardon,  Monsieur,"  he  exclaimed,  lift- 
ing the  opera  hat  as  we  nearly  collided. 

"Pass,  I  pray  you,  Monsieur,"  I  returned,  and 


246    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

as  I  closed  the  iron  door  I  saw  him  half  turn  with 
a  puzzled  look  as  if  he  vaguely  remembered  me, 
but  I  doubt  if  he  did.  I  swung  the  door  ajar  and 
watched  him  nimbly  ascending  the  spiral  stairs. 

It  was  little  old  Stimson. 

Now  do  not  for  a  moment  imagine  that  Gaby 
had  received  me  to-night  out  of  that  camara- 
derie that  exists  among  artists.  Gaby  is  not 
given  to  receiving  poor  painters  from  the  sheer 
delight  of  their  unremunerative  company.  A 
full  page  in  Paris  en  Scene  was,  however,  well 
worth  opening  her  door  to.  As  to  her  opening 
her  door  to  Stimson,  that  was  quite  another 
story.  She  had  received  me  to-night  with  a 
certain  imperious  and  cold  disdain  in  keeping 
with  her  sullen  beauty,  and  had  motioned  me  to 
the  plain  kitchen  chair  beside  her  dressing-table 
-  the  same  chair  that  Stimson  now  occupied  to 
Gaby's  entire  satisfaction,  and  by  far  the  most 
expensive  seat  in  the  house,  judging  from  the 
three  strings  of  perfect  pearls  I  had  indicated 
in  my  sketch. 

Had  Stimson  reached  his  dotage  to  have  be- 
come so  hopelessly  fascinated  by  this  woman  in 


"GABY"  247 

the  depths  of  whose  glorious  eyes  there  lurked 
danger,  and  whose  smile  was  that  of  a  woman 
who  knew  well  how  to  dominate  her  slaves?  I 
wondered  on  my  way  home  that  night. 

Within  ten  days  the  pastel  of  Gaby  was 
finished;  within  a  fortnight  Stimson's  portrait 
was  well  along,  and  we  had  become  good  friends. 

"Just  put  me  anywhere,"  he  had  remarked 
at  the  first  sitting.  ''This  I  call  positively 
ridiculous,"  he  had  added  as  I  lifted  a  big  cathe- 
dral chair  on  to  the  model-stand.  ''You  know 
I  haven't  even  had  a  photograph  taken  in  twenty 
years,"  he  laughed  as  he  took  his  seat,  "but  you 
see "  Then  he  hesitated  in  his  embarrass- 
ment and  grew  a  little  red  until  I  got  him  chat- 
ting over  the  changes  in  Paris  and  the  old  life  at 
Monte  Carlo;  and  his  small  eyes  would  twinkle. 

It  was  not  until  the  fourth  sitting  that  he  com- 
plimented me  on  the  pastel  of  Gaby  and  con- 
fessed to  me  that  his  portrait  was  destined  for 
the  same  lady.  After  that  there  were  no  se- 
crets between  us  —  only  a  most  difficult  state 
of  affairs  apropos  of  my  promise  to  Vautrin  upon 
the  morning  I  finished  the  portrait  and  declared 


248    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

to  Stimson  that  not  under  any  consideration 
would  I  accept  a  sou  for  the  canvas. 

"What?"  cried  Stimson.  "You  mean  to 

say "  he  stammered.  "Why,  I  won't  have 

it.  I  —  I  should  feel  mortified  beyond  words. 
Come,  be  reasonable.  You  know  when  I  was  a 
boy  my  father  taught  me  —  about  —  well,  a 
fan*  bargain.  Now  you  just  fill  out  this  check, 
and  I'll  feel  happier." 

"But  you  don't  know  what  a  delight  it's  been 
to  paint  you,"  I  insisted;  "besides,  it  is  I  who  am 
indebted  to  you." 

He  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"Ah,  you  don't  remember,"  I  laughed,  "but 
you  saved  my  life  once  —  all  of  eight  years  ago, 
at  Trouville."  And  I  confessed  to  him  the  inci- 
dent of  the  jeweller's  window  and  his  pet  yacht. 

For  some  moments  he  looked  thoughtfully 
at  the  floor,  twirling  his  eyeglasses,  which  he 
seldom  wore. 

"That  was  the  little  Gull,"  he  said  slowly. 
"I've  got  the  Narvalha  now.  She's  being  over- 
hauled and  will  be  ready  to  cruise  in  June." 

He  glanced  up  with  a  kindly  smile.     "Do  me 


"GABY"  249 

another  favour,"  said  he.  "You  and  Vautrin 
come  and  spend  a  month  or  so  aboard  with  me. 
"We'll  cruise  where  we  please." 

Two  months  had  slipped  by  on  board  the 
Narvalha,  cruising  along  the  Italian  coast,  and 
both  Vautrin  and  myself  were  convinced  we 
should  never  do  any  more  work.  The  life 
aboard  the  Narvalha  was  not  conducive  to  pro- 
ducing much  else  but  an  appetite,  the  coma  of 
idleness,  and  an  utter  disregard  for  the  future. 
It  is  amazing  how  quickly  the  habit  of  luxury 
can  be  acquired.  The  old  working  life  in  Paris 
now  seemed  to  us  like  a  vague  memory  of  the 
past,  and  we  grew  to  wonder  how  we  had  sur- 
vived its  hardships  along  the  byways  of  ne- 
cessity. There  were  memories  now  of  sparkling 
sunshine  and  the  cool  shadow  of  the  awning  on 
the  af t-deck  —  memories  of  jolly  luncheons  and 
still  gayer  dinners  in  the  cozy  saloon  of  the 
Narvalha,  whose  interior  was  as  carefully  made 
as  the  inside  of  Gaby's  jewel  case.  There  were 
moonlight  nights  when  the  big  steam  yacht  lay 
white  and  still  as  a  sleeping  gull  on  a  silver  sea, 


250    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

and  we  watched  the  lights  twinkling  from  shore 
and  listened  to  the  distant  music  of  some  strange 
port. 

Gaby  had  grown  as  dark-skinned  as  a  Sicil- 
ienne,  her  coat  of  tan  lending  more  glory  to  her 
eyes  —  eyes  which  were  now  given  to  Gonzalez 
and  beneath  whose  dark  lashes  it  was  easy 
enough  to  read  her  fascination  for  this  far  too 
good-looking  young  Spaniard  we  had  picked  up 
at  Naples.  I  may  even  say  rescued,  for  from 
certain  indications  both  Vautrin  and  myself 
were  convinced  it  was  high  time  for  Gonzalez  to 
put  to  sea.  How  many  hearts  he  had  broken 
on  shore  was  difficult  to  say.  They  might,  how- 
ever, have  been  as  numerous  as  his  debts.  In 
Naples  we  met  him  by  chance  at  a  late  supper 
after  the  theatre.  It  seemed  he  was  an  old 
friend  of  Gaby's,  and  his  ecstasy  at  meeting 
her  again  was  intense.  His  gestures  were  rapid 
and  effusive,  as  are  Spaniards'.  From  the  moment 
his  black  eyes  gleamed  in  recognition  and  he 
rose  from  his  table,  advanced  to  ours  and,  baring 
his  perfect  teeth,  smiled,  bent,  and  lifted  Gaby's 
jewelled  hand  to  his  lips,  accepted  the  chair  be- 


"GABY"  251 

side  her,  won  Stimson's  good-humoured  con- 
fidence, and  was  withal  so  altogether  amusing 
until  dawn,  treating  Gaby  with  such  profound 
respect  beneath  the  gayety  of  his  stories  and  the 
clever  varnish  of  his  perfect  manners,  that  his 
invitation  as  a  guest  on  board  the  Narvalha  Vau- 
trin  and  I  saw  was  a  foregone  conclusion.  More- 
over, Gaby,  with  the  imperiousness  of  her  beauty, 
insisted,  and  there  was  nothing  for  Stimson  to 
do  but  to  invite  him  to  cruise  with  us. 

Since  Gonzalez  came  on  board,  Gaby  had 
changed  for  the  worse,  and  if  I  had  been  the  owner 
of  the  Narvalha,  I  would  have  locked  up  the 
piano  and  the  champagne.  Even  MacFarlane, 
the  skipper,  who  had  spent  years  aboard  pri- 
vate yachts,  began  to  grumble  in  his  red  beard. 
MacFarlane  was  a  man  who  had  seen  hard  ser- 
vice in  many  strange  waters  hi  his  life  and  had 
run  the  gamut  of  the  sea's  cruelty.  The  raw 
danger  in  the  plain  old  ships  he  had  sailed  in  be- 
fore he  became  a  crack  skipper  of  private  yachts 
had  been  far  easier  to  weather  than  the  intri- 
cate social  difficulties  he  had  experienced  among 
sailing  millionaires.  It  is  true,  is  it  not,  that 


252    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

there  is  often  more  danger  lurking  around  a  din- 
ner table  of  a  yacht  in  port  than  aboard  a  strug- 
gling craft  with  a  shifted  cargo  fighting  her  way 
under  her  last  rag?  Moreover,  MacFarlane 
was  a  man  who  dreaded  the  fog  worse  than  a 
hurricane.  There  was  something  significant  in 
this  apropos  of  the  veil  of  secrecy  developing  be- 
tween Gonzalez  and  the  lady  of  the  ship.  In 
the  grim  inhospitality  of  the  open  sea  there  was 
nothing  a  man  like  MacFarlane  feared  more 
than  conspiracy.  He  had  a  big  liking  for  Stim- 
son  and  would  have  sailed  him  half  around  the 
world,  I  honestly  believe,  for  nothing.  He  drew, 
however,  a  large  salary.  No  more  able  sailing 
master  existed.  Nothing  escaped  him. 

It  was  as  MacFarlane  feared  —  at  dinner  — 
that  the  trouble  began. 

The  details  of  the  affair  on  board  the  Nar- 
valha  on  the  night  of  the  4th  of  August,  1909, 
have  been  so  erroneously  cited  by  the  press  that 
I  intend  to  put  down  here,  as  simply  as  I  can, 
my  personal  impression. 

It  was  Gonzalez's  last  night  on  board.     In 


"GABY"  253 

the  morning  he  would  be  on  his  way  to  Spain,  and 
yet,  despite  the  last  evening  before  his  departure, 
Gaby's  good  humour  all  through  the  dinner  was 
a  relief.  She  was  the  Gaby  of  the  Folies  Ber- 
geres  to-night.  Everything  appeared  to  strike 
her  humorously.  She  laughed  between  pauses. 
Women  are  experts  at  this. 

Stimson  sat  in  his  accustomed  chair  at  the 
head  of  the  table,  chatting  briskly  with  Vautrin 
and  myself.  We  had  long  ago  reached  the  cof- 
fee and  cigarettes.  Gonzalez  was  seated  at  the 
piano  on  Stimson's  left,  while  Gaby  sat  opposite 
our  host,  her  elbows  on  the  table,  her  chin  in 
her  jewelled  hands,  and  her  eyes  wandering  to 
Gonzalez  as  he  played  and  sang  to  her  snatches 
of  the  love  songs  of  his  country. 

I  left  them  thus  at  ten  minutes  to  midnight  and 
went  on  deck  for  a  whiff  of  air.  I  remember  the 
hour  —  ten  minutes  to  twelve  —  distinctly,  for 
as  I  left  the  saloon  I  glanced  at  the  clock  between 
the  two  doors,  one  leading  to  Stimson's  cabin, 
the  other  the  door  that  led  into  the  companion- 
way  to  the  deck  stairs.  Gonzalez  was  still  play- 
mg  when  I  reached  the  deck.  Suddenly  the 


254    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

piano  and  the  tenor  voice  ceased  as  abruptly  as 
if  they  had  been  stifled.  Possibly  two  minutes 
elapsed  while  I  stood  leaning  over  the  rail  in 
the  moonlight  watching  the  lights  from  shore. 
Then  I  was  conscious  of  a  leaping  step  back  of 
me,  and  Vautrin  sprang  across  the  deck  and 
gripped  my  arm. 

"Quick,"  he  gasped.  "There's  hell  to  pay 
down  there ! "  And  before  I  could  question  him, 
he  drove  me  by  the  back  of  the  neck,  forcing 
me  down  the  narrow  flight  leading  to  the  sa- 
loon. The  first  voice  I  heard  was  Gaby's. 
"  You  lie ! "  she  screamed.  "  You  lie ! " 
Then  MacFarlane  sprang  down  the  stairs  past 
us,  his  broad  shoulders  blocking  the  way.  At 
that  instant  over  his  left  shoulder  I  saw  a  blind- 
ing flash;  simultaneously  the  sharp  report  of  a 
revolver  set  my  ears  ringing  and  my  heart  in  my 
throat.  I  was  the  second  to  reach  the  saloon 
after  MacFarlane,  who  was  bending  over  Stim- 
son.  I  saw  him  tear  the  collar  of  his  dress 
shirt  open;  then  I  turned  my  head.  Gaby  stood 
against  the  table  like  a  woman  turned  to  stone. 
She  stood  there  with  dilated  eyes  staring  at  us. 


"GABY"  255 

Gonzalez  crouched  beside  the  piano.  Then  I 
saw  Stimson's  revolver  drop  from  Gaby's  hand 
to  the  floor.  Stimson  groaned  as  MacFarlane 
raised  his  head. 

"Where?"  asked  Vautrin  hoarsely.  Mac- 
Farlane raised  a  red-wet  hand  from  Stimson's 
side.  "Through  the  ribs,  damn  her,"  muttered 
the  skipper. 

Gaby  stood  still  as  if  petrified.  Gonzalez 
made  a  cringing,  terrified  attempt  to  speak. 
By  this  time  the  first  mate  and  four  seamen  had 
leaped  down  the  stairs  and  into  the  saloon. 
The  mate  stood  over  Gonzalez.  One  seaman 
picked  up  the  revolver,  the  three  others  sur- 
rounded the  statue  by  the  table;  then  I  saw  her 
slip  slowly  fainting  to  the  floor. 

All  this  had  happened  with  astonishing  rapidity. 

MacFarlane  now  lifted  the  unconscious  Stim- 
son in  his  arms  and  passed  with  him  into  his  cabin. 

"Dead?"  I  ventured  as  MacFarlane  laid  him 
on  the  bed. 

The  skipper  shook  his  head,  and,  calling  to  the 
mate,  bid  me  leave. 

Vautrin  had  lifted  Gaby  to  a  chair.     She  had 


256    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

come  to  her  senses  and  was  now  screaming  in 
hysteria. 

"Ah!  mon  Dieu!  Ah!  mon  Dieu!"  Gon- 
zalez kept  repeating,  beating  his  hands  to  his 
temples.  The  mate  returned,  forced  him  to  his 
feet,  drove  him  into  Vautrin's  cabin  and,  closing 
the  door,  locked  it  from  the  outside. 

I  crossed  to  Stimson's  door  and  looked  in  at 
the  ashen  face  on  the  bed.  For  an  instant  he 
opened  his  eyes. 

"Don't  try  to  speak,  Mr.  Stimson,"  said  Mac- 
Farlane  as  he  parted  his  lips  with  his  thumb  and 
poured  a  cup  of  brandy  down  the  wounded 
man's  throat. 

It  was  not  until  nearly  noon  that  the  Italian 
authorities  came  on  board.  An  investigation 
was  unavoidable,  and  what  they  found  lay  in  a 
crumpled  wad  behind  the  small  upright  piano. 
In  the  crumpled  wad  was  a  half -burned  cigarette. 
The  wad  consisted  of  ten  thousand  lira  in  bank- 
notes belonging  to  Stimson.  The  cigarette  had 
burned  through  three  of  the  banknotes.  The 
cigarette  was  Gonzalez's. 

It  was  not  until  nearly  five  o'clock  that  Stim- 


"GABY"  257 

son  again  regained  consciousness  and  the  Italian 
physician  gave  us  some  encouragement. 

The  whole  dastardly  affair  had  been  planned 
by  Gaby,  who  had  stolen  the  money  from  where 
it  lay  in  the  drawer  of  the  desk  in  Stimson's 
cabin.  She  had  passed  it  to  the  Spaniard  while 
he  sang.  Stimson's  quick  eyes  had  discovered 
her  and  denounced  her.  In  the  scene  which 
followed  she  got  his  revolver,  lost  her  head,  and 
in  her  sudden  rage  had  shot  him.  All  this  she 
confessed  at  the  trial. 

It  was  months  before  Stimson  recovered,  yet 
not  once  did  a  word  again  escape  his  lips  con- 
demning the  woman. 

All  these  tragic  events  happened  nearly 
three  years  ago.  Last  winter  I  passed  through 
a  cafe  in  Montmartre  looking  for  Vautrin  —  a 
cafe  where  we  met  often  for  an  aperitif.  As  I 
glanced  over  the  tables  a  woman  in  the  shadow 
of  a  corner  raised  her  eyes  to  mine  over  a  small 
beer  —  eyes  that  stared  at  me  as  if  she  had  seen 
a  spectre  —  then  were  lowered  and  hidden  under 
the  brim  of  a  hat  flaunting  a  faded  plume. 


258    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

It  was  Gaby!  And  neither  of  us  uttered  a 
word  as  I  passed  out  into  the  fresh  air.  Then  I 
hesitated  and  turned  back  over  the  threshold, 
greasy  with  the  slime  of  the  street,  to  say  a 
humane  word  to  Folly.  And  she  told  me  before 
Vautrin  entered,  in  the  voice  of  a  ghost,  that 
Gonzalez  was  still  in  jail,  beginning  an  old  sen- 
tence for  forgery,  and  that  she  had  been  released 
the  month  before.  But  I  did  not  mention 
Stimson,  hungry  as  I  knew  she  was  for  news,  for 
I  knew  him  to  be  at  rest  in  a  peaceful  villa  at 
Cannes,  where  he  occupies  himself  a  little  with 
golf  and  largely  with  early  bedtime  hours. 

As  Vautrin  and  I  often  say,  the  honesty  of  so 
good  and  faithful  a  little  soul  as  Marie  can  never 
be  too  much  appreciated. 

Just  such  tragedies  as  the  above  add  the  shadow  to  the 
sunshine  of  Paris  life;  and  it  is  also  true  that  one  as  over- 
generous  as  Stimson  is  generally  the  victim. — F.  B.  S. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 
UNDINE 


It  is  not  very  gay  —  the  life  — at  times.  To  leave  these  good 
friends  of  mine  in  Montmartre  and  to  be  ordered  across  the 
high  seas.  But  that  unfortunately  is  what  has  happened. 
Ah,  yes!  I  know  well  enough  that  dreadful  Gare  du  Nord 
and  the  waiting  train  —  and  Marie  is  always  so  brave  at  the 
train,  which  makes  it  att  the  harder.  —  F.  B.  S. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

UNDINE 

T  DEMAND  a  thousand  pardons,  Monsieur, 
•••  but  you  will  be  very  amiable  to  give  me  a 
little  fire." 

"With  pleasure,  Monsieur,"  he  returned,  in  a 
hollow,  trembling  voice  as  he  offered  me  the 
glowing  end  of  his  cigarette. 

"Thank  you,  Monsieur  —  infinitely,"  said  I 
as  we  simultaneously  lifted  our  hats. 

"It  has  been  a  pleasure,  Monsieur,"  he  added 
hoarsely  as  I  glanced  up  again  at  this  soldierly, 
erect  old  Frenchman  whom  I  had  halted  among 

Ml 


262    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

the  crowd  of  Americans  thronging  the  quay  of 
the  Gare  du  Nord  before  the  steamer  special, 
waiting  to  run  to  Boulogne. 

During  my  rapid  glance  as  we  parted,  his  whole 
personality  struck  me  forcibly.  Never  had  I 
seen  so  dignified  and  yet  so  tragic  a  countenance. 
During  that  brief  instant  there  crept  to  the 
wrinkled  corners  of  his  cavernous  blue  eyes  the 
vestige  of  a  forced  smile;  then  the  smile  died, 
and  there  remained  only  the  mask  of  his  mel- 
ancholy features;  the  high,  broad  forehead 
framed  by  his  silver-gray  hair;  the  prominent 
cheekbones,  and  the  homely  mouth  and  chin, 
shielded  by  a  moustache  of  iron-gray,  beneath 
which  his  jaw  closed  firmly. 

I  turned  for  a  second  glance  as  I  strode  past 
him;  and,  to  my  surprise,  I  saw  the  cavernous 
blue  eyes  were  swimming  in  tears.  Yet  he 
walked  erect,  his  hands  thrust  behind  him  - 
alone.  Never,  I  repeat,  had  I  seen  a  sadder- 
looking  man  than  this  singularly  dignified  old 
Frenchman,  who  spoke  to  no  one,  and  carried 
himself  erect  in  his  grief.  Surely,  I  thought  to 
myself,  he  must  have  a  wife,  friends,  children,  or 


UNDINE  263 

even  a  sweetheart,  despite  his  evident  sixty  odd 
years,  to  wish  him  "bon  voyage"  upon  so  im- 
portant a  journey  as  from  Paris  to  New  York. 
And  yet,  as  now  and  then  my  eyes  followed  him, 
although  the  black  minute  hand  of  the  station 
clock  had  crawled  close  to  the  hour  to  leave,  he 
continued  to  pace  the  quay  alone.  A  stranger 
among  strangers,  whose  civilization  it  was  safe 
to  say  he  knew  nothing  of,  and  whose  language 
it  was  as  equally  certain  to  venture  he  could  not 
speak. 

"All  aboard!"  shouted  the  railway  guard. 
The  short,  pigeonlike  young  woman  and  her 
fat  mate  were  still  blocking  the  narrow  corridor 
as  I  squeezed  my  way  past  to  my  seat,  and  she 
kissed  him  again  and  again,  and  pleaded  tear- 
fully: 

"  Abey,  take  a  safe  ship  back,  unt  come  soon." 
"Sure!"  said  he,  pushing  his  wine-coloured, 
satin-lined  derby  free  from  the  beads  of  per- 
spiration.    "Sure,  Lena,   de  best  is  none  too 
goot.     Dot's  right.    Eh,  Ike?" 

And  Ike,  standing  by,  agreed,  and  added: 
"Veil, Abey,  I  guess  dis  is  goot-bye  for  sure. 


264    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

Say,  if  you  was  to  see  Klotz,  tell  him  ve  von't 
touch  dem  fancy  Lyons  silks  until  he  caples. 
Unt,  Abey,  listen.  Tell  him,  also,  dot  dem 
babies'  dress  goods  dot  Lieber  vired  for  is  a  bum 
lot." 

"All  aboard!"  insisted  the  red-faced  guard, 
slamming  and  locking  the  compartment  doors. 

The  pigeon  was  in  tears,  being  the  last  to  es- 
cape, while  the  young  American  girl,  leaning  out 
of  the  corridor  window,  and  whose  auburn  hair 
was  as  neat  as  her  trim  blue  tailor-made,  told 
the  lingering  young  man  who  had  brought  the 
long-stemmed  roses,  and  whose  repartee  oscil- 
lated between,  "Ha!  Ha!  Really!"  and  "I 
think  it  was  awfully  clever  in  you,"  "that  the 
Cathedral  of  Cologne  has  the  Parthenon  stung 
to  death." 

Possibly  she  had  a  sneaking  idea  when  she 
said  it  that  she  would  some  day  be  married  to 
the  young  man  in  the  historic  edifice  with  the 
hornetlike  quality.  She  was  young,  and  im- 
aginative, and  besides,  "Popper,"  she  told  the 
lingering  one,  "gives  me  everything  I  ask  for." 

Again,  as  I  squeezed  my  way  through  this 


UNDINE  265 

transatlantic  menagerie,  my  mind  reverted 
to  my  dignified  old  Frenchman.  I  began 
to  wonder  what  he  thought  of  it  all.  He, 
whose  melancholy  presence  had  impressed 
me  most,  and  whom  I  frankly  felt  sorry  for, 
although  we  had  so  far  only  exchanged  the 
common  courtesy  of  fire  to  an  unlighted 
cigarette. 

A  fluttering  of  handkerchiefs,  the  bleat  of  a 
horn,  a  hiss  of  steam,  and  we  slipped  out  of  the 
big  station,  past  the  waving  crowd  of  friends, 
past  a  bunch  of  crushed  violets  in  a  pool  of  train 
grease,  and  out  into  the  warm  sunshine  of  La 
Belle  France. 

Was  my  old  Frenchman  safe  and  aboard?  I 
wondered. 

Presently  I  discovered  him  in  the  car  ahead 
in  the  middle  seat  of  a  crowded  compartment, 
sitting  with  his  arms  folded  beneath  his  old- 
fashioned  valise  with  an  embroidered  cover;  and 
he  sat  there,  staring  straight  ahead  of  him  out 
of  those  sad,  hollow  eyes  of  his;  Le  Petit  Pari- 
sien,  which  he  had  been  reading,  refolded  care- 
fully on  his  knees. 


266    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

Again  it  was  evident  to  me  he  could  not  under- 
stand a  word  of  English. 

Boulogne  is  always  busy  unloading  fish  and 
getting  more;  the  steam  trawlers  bring  them  in 
by  tons.  Below  the  clambering,  picturesque 
old  town  in  the  great  basin  of  the  port,  flanked 
by  its  giant  quays,  were  massed  to-day  the  fleet 
of  fishing  boats  in  from  the  night's  catch  - 
sails  of  Van  Dyck  brown,  rich  as  bitumen;  sails 
of  salmon  and  of  pale  emerald  green. 

There  is  nothing  that  lies  afloat  or  ashore  in 
Boulogne  that  is  not  made  for  hard  service; 
spars  reenforced  with  iron,  tough  brown  nets, 
giant  anchor  chains,  and  heavy  hawsers.  The 
big-booted  fishermen  are  of  the  grizzled  pirate 
type,  and  the  women  are  pretty  —  a  race  apart. 
Over  the  coal-dusted  and  greasy  cobbles  click- 
clack  their  neat  sabots.  They  have  trim  feet 
and  slim  ankles,  these  active  Boulognese. 

To-day  the  quay  was  alive.  Sturdy-chested 
Norman  horses  strained  in  their  traces,  hauling 
drays  loaded  with  crates  for  Rio,  trunks  for  New 
York,  and  cases  of  salt  herring.  On  the  quay's 


UNDINE  267 

edge  of  granite  lay,  spilled  in  their  slime,  piles 
of  sharks,  the  cheapest  cast-off  of  the  catch. 
The  heavy-booted  fishermen  lurched  by,  glad 
to  be  home,  touching  elbows  with  every  type, 
from  the  outcast  of  the  port  to  the  immaculate, 
brass-buttoned  cockney  steward  off  the  Chan- 
nel boat;  while  the  donkey  engines  growled  and 
the  teamsters  swore. 

Through  this  moving  mass  along  the  quay, 
the  Americans  were  now  picking  their  way  to 
the  fat  tug  lying  in  wait  ready  to  run  out  to  the 
liner.  Beyond  the  tug's  bow  lay  a  veil  of 
pearly  mist,  a  gauze  hiding  the  open  sea.  The 
air  was  soft  and  caressing,  and  as  still  in  the 
misty  sunlight  as  the  oily-green  water  beneath. 

I  looked  about  me  over  the  tug's  deck,  and 
there  sat  my  old  Frenchman  well  aft  and  alone. 
He  was  leaving  France,  the  land  he  loved,  and 
I  saw  him  run  his  eyes  over  the  quaint  roofs  of 
the  rambling  old  town  towering  above  him,  as 
if  he  longed  to  catch  one  more  glimpse  of  the 
fair  green  land  beyond. 

The  babble  of  the  train  was  now  a  thing  of  the 
past.  Few  spoke  on  the  waiting  tug,  and  most 


268    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

of  the  women  had  taken  to  the  cabin,  smelling  of 
lukewarm  tea  and  bilge.  Up  on  the  bridge, 
the  French  captain,  a  short,  thick-set  little 
man,  with  the  eye  of  an  eagle,  paced  back 
and  forth,  listening  for  the  liner's  signal,  his  fat, 
sun-tanned  hands  thrust  deep  in  the  pockets  of 
his  pea-jacket. 

Half  an  hour  passed  in  silence.  I  turned  to 
the  agent  of  the  line,  an  old  friend  of  mine. 

"She's  late,  Bob,"  I  ventured. 

He  nodded.  "Head  winds  from  Rotterdam, 
no  doubt,"  he  declared.  "Hark!" 

"Voo!  Omm!  Oomm!"  boomed  faintly  from 
beyond  the  veil. 

"There  she  is,"  said  we. 

The  captain  spat  out  the  butt  of  his  cigarette, 
and  bellowed  to  his  mate  below: 

"Eh,  ben!"  he  roared.  " Sacre  nom  (Tun 
chienl  Depeches-toi  la-bas!" 

Like  a  flash,  the  tug  became  animated.  For- 
ward and  aft  hawsers  were  cast  loose.  The  bell 
in  the  engine  room  clanked  sharp  and  insistent 
to  the  accompaniment  of  the  "Sacre  bon  Dieus" 
and  the  "Voyons!"  and  "Sapristis!"  from  the 


UNDINE  269 

bridge;  and  we  headed  through  the  mist  for  the 
waiting  liner. 

I  turned  to  catch  sight  of  my  old  Frenchman. 
He  was  standing  erect,  with  his  back  to  me,  his 
handkerchief  to  his  eyes. 

Through  the  sea-dimmed  porthole  struggled  the 
gray  light  of  morning,  now  that  half  a  day  and  a 
night  lay  between  us  and  Boulogne;  and  without 
rushed  the  sweeping,  mountainous  water,  the  surg- 
ing tops  of  whose  grim  craters  the  head  wind  de- 
capitated, hurling  the  salt  spray  viciously  on  high, 
while  she  plunged  and  lifted  this  good  Dutch  ship, 
taking  the  onslaught,  rising  in  her  giant  strength 
with  the  tons  of  water  that  smashed  over  her 
bow,  smothering  her  lower  deck,  scurrying,  swish- 
ing, bubbling,  chuckling  down  her  scuppers. 

It  was  a  morning  when  her  woodwork  whined 
and  creaked  as  she  rolled  and  rose  —  cheerful 
old  morning  in  a  dog's  sea  when  the  smoking- 
room  lights  were  lit  for  early  habitues;  merry  old 
morning  when  your  bathtub  emptied  itself  over 
your  shoulders,  and  your  sizzling  sausage,  and 
crisp,  grilled  ham,  and  sputtering  eggs  have  a 


270    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

tendency  to  slide,  and  are  stopped  by  the  table 
rack,  which  hurts  your  wrist  bones. 

"Bad  vedder!"  laughed  Fritz,  who  had  kept 
my  griddle  cakes  hot.  It  was  a  morning  when, 
as  late  as  ten,  not  a  fountain  pen  was  in  use  in 
the  stale  "Social  Hall,"  and  the  lounges  held 
huddled  forms  under  home-knitted  shawls,  and 
the  empty  glass  of  lemonade,  rolling  beneath  the 
unidentified  dead,  played  hide  and  seek  with  the 
empty  cup  of  bullion  until  both  were  sent  off  to 
the  pantry  by  the  deck  steward. 

I  began  to  wonder  how  my  old  Frenchman  was 
weathering  it. 

The  next  morning  broke  in  crisp,  sparkling 
sunshine.  The  sea  ran  high  under  a  blue  sky, 
and,  with  the  brilliant  sunlight  and  a  steadily 
rising  barometer,  the  ship  became  cheerful.  My 
old  Frenchman  was  not  long  in  getting  on  deck. 
He  passed  me  as  I  stood  lighting  my  pipe;  and 
again,  as  he  made  the  turn  of  the  long,  clean 
deck,  he  paced  rapidly  by  me,  his  hands  clasped 
behind  him,  staring  ahead  of  him  with  that  same 
stolid  erectness  I  had  noticed  at  the  Gare  du 
Nord.  A  desire  seized  me  to  speak  to  him,  and 


UNDINE  271 

yet  I  hesitated.  I  felt  he  wished  to  be  left  alone. 
I  watched  him  discreetly;  and  not  once  did  I  see 
his  gaze  meet  the  eyes  of  a  passenger;  and  more 
than  once  I  thought  I  detected  him  turn  his  head 
away  from  the  women  he  passed.  Just  a  slight 
turn  of  the  head,  scarcely  noticeable ;  but  it  was  so 
evident,  nevertheless,  that  I  became  interested. 

For  the  third  time  he  had  made  the  round  of  the 
deck,  and  was  drawing  abreast  of  me.  He  had 
passed  me  by  a  few  yards,  when  I  saw  him  stop, 
turn,  seem,  for  a  moment,  to  hesitate,  and  then, 
as  if  he  had  made  a  sudden  decision,  he  strode 
toward  me,  and  lifted  his  cap.  My  hand  went  to 
my  own.  I  saw  he  was  struggling  to  speak. 

"Forgive  me,  Monsieur,"  he  began.  Again 
his  voice  trembled,  though  I  saw  he  was  bravely 
trying  to  control  it. 

"Bonjour,  Monsieur,'*  I  replied,  in  greeting. 

He  made  an  effort  to  smile,  but  the  smile  died, 
and  he  continued  in  a  low,  gentle  voice: 

"You  —  you  will,  I  pray,  forgive  me,  Mon- 
sieur, but"  —  he  put  his  hand  wearily  to  his  fore- 
head —  "  I  am,  Monsieur,  as  you  must  see,  a  miser- 
able and  most  unhappy  man.  It  is  because  of  this," 


272    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

he  resumed  slowly,  in  a  broken  voice,  "that  I  have 
taken  the  great  liberty  to  speak  to  you." 

The  hollow  eyes  now  swam  with  tears  which 
he  was  unable  to  control. 

'You  speak  French,  Monsieur?"  he  resumed 
faintly.  "It  is  good  to  hear  it.  I  who  am  alone 
among  strangers,  whose  language  I  cannot  under- 
stand." 

"Ah,  my  poor  Monsieur!"  I  exclaimed  when 
he  had  finished.  "There  is  no  one  who  can  bet- 
ter understand  than  myself.  Come,  let  us  take 
a  turn  together.  You  shall  see.  It  will  do  you 
good.  The  good  promenade,  as  you  say  in 
France,  rinses  the  eyes,  changes  the  ideas." 

He  fumbled  for  his  card. 

"Permit  me,"  he  said,  as  he  offered  it  to  me 
while  I  searched  for  my  own,  and  read: 


JEAN  PAUL  PAVIGNON 


As  we  turned  through  the  windy  passage  to  star- 
board, he  halted  abruptly,  and  gripped  my  arm. 


UNDINE  273 

"I  —  I  cannot  go  there,"  he  faltered. 

I  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"But  there's  less  wind,"  I  explained. 

"I  know,"  he  replied.  "It  is,  however,  where 
the  ladies  go.  If  —  if  you  do  not  mind,  Mon- 
sieur   " 

"  Certainly,  Monsieur,  since  you  do  not  wish  it." 

"I  cannot  pass  them,"  he  interposed,  in  a 
voice  that  was  half  audible.  "I  —  I  am  in- 
capable of  passing  a  woman  now  without  weep- 
ing. My  wife  is  dead." 

"My  poor  Monsieur!"  I  exclaimed. 

There  was  no  mistaking  now  either  the  reason 
or  the  genuineness  of  his  grief.  He  shook  vis- 
ibly as  he  gripped  a  stanchion,  steadying  him- 
self. 

"  You  see  —  what  —  a  —  pitiful  state  I  am  in," 
he  resumed,  after  a  struggling  pause.  "I  am 
incapable  of  controlling  my  emotions.  Since 
my  wife  died,  seven  years  ago,  I  have  not  known 
a  single  happy  hour.  I  am  alone.  Do  you 
know  what  it  means  to  be  alone,  Monsieur?  It 
is  like  a  living  death." 

He  gazed  at  me  out  of  his  streaming  eyes,  his 


274  THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

hand  still  gripping  the  stanchion.     He  paused 
again  to  steady  his  voice. 

"And  now  I  must  go  to  your  country  —  to  the 
New  Orleans,"  he  resumed.  "I  have  inherited 
a  little  property  there.  Oh,  a  very  modest  one. 
I  am,  as  you  see,  poor,  but  there  have  been  legal 
complications,  and  there  was  no  other  way  but 
to  go  myself." 

He  said  this  thoughtfully,  awed  by  the  mag- 
nitude of  the  journey  he  had  undertaken,  alone 
as  he  was. 

From  that  moment  a  desire  seized  me  to  cure 
this  unfortunate  man  of  his  grief.  The  task  was 
not  an  easy  one.  To  rescue  him  from  the  depths  of 
neurasthenia  to  which  he  had  fallen  I  knew  would 
occupy  most  of  my  waking  hours  on  board. 

One  does  not  endeavour  to  cheer  up  those  who 
are  in  the  depths  of  despair  by  taking  them  to  a 
problem  play.  One  turns  to  vaudeville,  and  I 
knew  where  my  real  vaudeville  existed  —  in  the 
smoking  room,  as  usual.  I  may  say,  I  have 
rarely  sailed  without  discovering  within  this 
sanctum  of  nicotine,  cards,  and  more  drinks,  an 
excellent  troup,  ready  to  amuse  you  from  11 


UNDINE  275 

A.  M.  until  midnight.  True,  ladies  were  ad- 
mitted; but  I  was  even  willing  to  run  the  risk, 
knowing,  as  I  did,  Monsieur  Pavignon's  tragic 
antipathy  to  their  presence. 

"Allans!  Allans!"  I  coaxed,  gripping  him  by 
the  arm.  "Come,  let  us  go  to  the  smoking 
room.  A  little  vermouth  will  do  neither  of  us 
any  harm.  We  shall  have  a  good  chat,  quite  as 
if  we  had  met  on  the  boulevard,"  I  added,  as  he 
hesitated,  until  by  sheer  insistence  I  led  him, 
still  protesting,  toward  the  smoking-room  door. 

"Not  a  word  of  the  past,"  I  said  to  him  as  I 
jerked  open  the  heavy  door  by  its  brass  ring. 
"Not  a  word  of  the  past!  You  promise  me?" 

He  nodded  sadly  in  acquiescence,  and  the 
mask  smiled  faintly. 

"After  you,"  I  said,  though  he  graciously  drew 
back  while  I  held  the  door  open  until  he  had 
crossed  its  brass  threshold. 

We  found  a  table  in  a  snug  corner  next  to  the 
bar,  where  the  sandwiches  were  freshest,  and 
the  vermouth  warmed  him;  or  was  it  the  feeling 
of  sudden  companionship  that,  little  by  little,  as 
we  talked,  brought  a  new  light  into  his  hollow 


276    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

blue  eyes,  and  loosened  the  seams  in  the  tragic 
mask  until  there  crept  the  warm  blood  into  his 
cheeks;  and  at  last  a  timid  smile,  as  if  at  first  it 
had  feared  to  assert  itself. 

It  seems  that  both  this  good  Monsieur  Pavig- 
non  and  myself  had  once  hunted,  at  different 
periods  of  our  lives,  hares  in  the  fields  back  of 
Valmondois.  It  even  seems  we  had  eaten  the 
good  soup  of  Madame  Pinet  at  the  same  inn. 
And  we  were  reminiscing  over  Valmondois,  its 
small,  dull  village,  and  its  surrounding  pastures 
and  woodlands,  when  a  big  voice  thundered  over 
my  shoulder: 

"I  take  it  you're  'n  American." 

I  looked  up  as  the  owner  of  the  voice  leaned 
unceremoniously  across  our  table  for  the  matches, 
struck  one,  straightened  up  and  lighted  the  end 
of  a  long  Havana. 

He  was  a  giant  in  build,  nearly  bald,  heavy, 
and  vigorous;  clean-shaven,  with  a  genial  smile 
that  creased  the  wrinkles  deep  under  his  double 
chin.  Monsieur  Pavignon  looked  up,  too,  with 
an  expression  of  silent  amazement  at  the  sans- 
gene  of  the  intruder. 


UNDINE  277 

"My  friend,  Monsieur  Pavignon,"  I  said,  wav- 
ing a  more  formal  introduction. 

Monsieur  Pavignon  rose  instantly  to  his  feet 
and  bowed  gravely. 

"Jenkin's  my  name.     Pleased  to  know  yer." 

His  hand  closed  over  Pavignon's  in  a  hearty 
shake. 

"Yes,"  I  replied.     "I  am  an  American." 

He  drew  up  a  camp  stool,  planting  his  great 
fists  on  the  table,  and  his  big  feet  beneath. 

"  What'll  yer  have,  boys?  "  he  inquired  briskly, 
while  we  politely  protested.  We  were  still  lei- 
surely sipping  our  vermouth.  "Wa'n't  that  a 
peach  of  a  night?"  he  chuckled.  "Goin'  some, 
eh?  Well,  say  about  one  o'clock  —  wow! 
How'd  yer  stand  it?  My  wife  says  to  me,"  he 
added,  turning  to  Pavignon. 

*I  regret  Monsieur  Pavignon  does  not  speak 
English,"  I  interposed,  to  relieve  Pavignon's 
embarrassment. 

"Tell  him  if  he  could  hear  my  French,  he'd 
git  a  club."  Jenkins  laughed.  "  Been  over  long?  " 

"I  live  in  France,"  I  replied. 

"The  hell  you  say!"    And  he  whipped  out  a 


278    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

card  from  the  waistcoat  pocket  opposite  the 
cigars. 


JAMES  E.  JENKINS 


PRESIDENT  OF  THE  LITTLE 
FORKS  FURNITURE  CO. 


"If  you  ever  git  out  to  Little  Forks  give  us  a 
call,"  said  he.  "  Well,  sir,  speaking  of  France,  me. 
and  my  partner  was  to  Versailles  a  couple  of  days 
ago,  and  I  wanter  tell  yer"  —  here  his  big  fist 
struck  the  table  with  conviction  —  "we  seen  right 
there  in  that  there  palace,  chairs  just  as  well  glued 
and  pegged  as  we  kin  turn  out  in  Little  Forks  to- 
day. And  them  they  told  us  was  more'n  two 
hundred  years  old.  Wa'n't  that  right,  Sam?" 
he  shouted  back  of  him  to  his  partner,  who  was 
finishing  one  of  the  long  cigars  and  a  friendly 
deal  in  the  opposite  corner,  and  who  strikingly 
resembled  Jenkins,  save  that  he  was  less  bald. 

"Sure!"  came  in  reply. 

"Veil,  vhy  not?"  interrupted  a  third  voice, 
emanating  from  a  short,  fat  young  man,  whose 
moonlike  face  was  set  with  a  pair  of  beadlike 


UNDINE  279 

eyes,  and  whose  pudgy  left  hand  was  embla- 
zoned with  three  emerald  rings.  "For  dot 
swell,  high-toned  voodvork  de  old  country  is  de 
best  —  sure  dot's  right." 

"Shake  hands  with  my  friend,  Mr.  Blaumen- 
gast,"  insisted  Jenkins. 

"  Blaumen^'Z,"  corrected  the  one  with  the 
emerald  rings,  his  moonlike  face,  as  he  smiled, 
hah*  burying  his  eyes  —  two  black  beads  that 
twinkled  with  prosperity. 

Monsieur  Pavignon  again  rose  and  bowed. 
Mr.  Blaumenheil  returned  it  to  perfection  with 
his  heels  together.  He  was  used  to  receiving 
customers. 

"Bleased!"  said  Blaumenheil,  in  a  voice  as 
soft  as  sealskin. 

By  this  time,  Monsieur  Pavignon's  embar- 
rassment had  subsided.  He  sat  there,  smiling, 
amused  as  a  child  at  these  bizarre  strangers.  I 
saw,  too,  that,  despite  his  lack  of  English,  he 
was  remarkably  quick  to  catch  the  gist  of  what 
they  said  —  a  seventh  sense  with  the  Latin 
race.  Especially  this  was  true  in  regard  to  Mr. 
Blaumenheil,  who  was  rich  in  descriptive  gesture. 


280    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

So  interested  was  I  in  the  gradual  change  in  my 
patient,  that,  for  the  moment,  I  had  missed 
what  Blaumenheil  was  saying. 

"Unt  vhen  I  come  fierst  to  A-merica  I  didn't 
haf  a  cent,  unt  now  I'm  vorth  a  million.  Feel 
dem  rings.  Vas  you  never  to  my  blace?  Here, 
I  show  you.  Dot  is  something  to  see."  And 
Blaumenheil  produced  for  our  inspection  a  pack 
of  illustrated  post  cards.  "I  got  de  finest  blea- 
sure  park  on  de  beach.  Look  here,  mit  real 
trees  in  de  promenade  garten;  cost  me  a  lot  of 
money.  Unt  here  ist  de  ballroom.  Unt  here, 
look,  ist  de  wine  stube.  Dot  is  also  something 
to  see.  Unt  here  ist  my  tee-ater,  vhere  I  make 
a  big  hit  mit  dot  *  Merry  Vidow'  show  last  sum- 
mer; unt  now  next  summer  I  gif  dem  opera 
bouffes.  Sure  come  down,  unt  I  gif  you  a  goot 
time.  Von't  cost  you  a  cent.  Naw  if  you 
hafn't  seen  de  old  beach  in  ten  years.  Veil,  you 
vouldn't  know  it  now.  Unt  de  goot  olt  days  is 
gone,  too.  Now  I  haf  to  pay  goot  big  money 

for  dem  soft-shell  crabs,  unt  in  de  olt  days  - 
i 

vhat!     Did  you  never  know  dot?     Dot  was   a 
olt  game,  sure.      Vhen  dem  soft-shell  crabs  vas 


UNDINE  281 

too  high,  ve  used  to  go  down  to  Fulton  Market, 
unt  buy  up  de  stiffs;  chuck  'em  in  de  lard,  chuck 
'em  out  again,  unt  dey  ate  like  sugar." 

Monsieur  Pavignon's  smile  was  now  a  delight. 

"Well,  say!"  shrilled  a  large  lady  in  a  knitted 
sweater,  sweeping  into  the  smoking  room  on  a 
voyage  of  discovery.  "Here  they  are,  Min. 
Say,  we've  been  looking  all  over  for  you." 

Monsieur's  face  became  suddenly  grave. 

"My  wife,"  confided  Jenkins. 

"Bleased,"  said  Blaumenheil,  as  he  rose  and 
bowed  dapperly.  And  the  second  bugle  call 
blew  for  luncheon,  much  to  Monsieur  Pavignon's 
relief. 

The  days  went  by,  and  the  smoking  room 
found  Monsieur  Pavignon  and  myself  in  our 
favourite  corner  nightly,  and  into  which  now 
came  the  partners  from  Little  Forks  and  their 
wives.  The  ever  good-humoured  Blaumenheil, 
a  jolly  little  widow  from  San  Francisco,  with 
pretty  teeth,  and  the  trim  young  American  girl 
to  whom  the  young  man  had  brought  the  long- 
stemmed  roses;  and  she  sang  to  us  snatches  from 


282    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

music  halls  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  mando- 
lin and  guitar,  tinkled  by  two  rival  deck  suitors, 
both  fresh  from  college,  and  who  had  gained  the 
confidence  of  her  "mommer"  by  passing  the 
olives. 

The  advent  of  these  ladies  in  our  corner  pro- 
duced, the  first  evening,  a  singular  impression 
upon  my  patient.  Helpless  as  he  was  to  get  out, 
he  bravely  made  the  best  of  it  like  the  thorough- 
bred he  was,  and,  although  more  than  once  when 
the  strain  grew  intense,  I  saw  a  vestige  of  the  old 
look  creep  into  his  eyes,  out  of  sheer  camaraderie 
for  me,  I  believe,  he  mastered  his  emotion, 
and  grew  genial  with  the  rest. 

Indeed,  his  popularity  was  such  that  they 
heralded  him  now  with  cheers  as  we  entered  the 
smoking  room  after  dinner,  where  he  was  well 
belaboured  with  the  bad  French  of  the  trim 
American  girl,  the  San  Francisco  widow,  and  a 
certain  Mrs.  Casey,  whose  husband  kept  a  large 
hotel.  Fat,  good-natured  Mrs.  Casey,  whose 
solitaire  earrings  made  Mr.  BlaumenheiPs  em- 
eralds look  like  glass. 

It  was  Mrs.  Casey  who  rang  the  first  hearty 


UNDINE  283 

laugh  out  of  Monsieur  Pavignon  after  my  care- 
ful translation  —  florid  Mrs.  Casey,  with  her 
hazel  Irish  eyes  full  of  kindly  devilment. 

"That's  right!"  she  repeated  to  me,  with 
true  Irish  hospitality.  "If  you're  iver  in  need 
of  a  good  sirloin  steak  four  inches  through,  with- 
out any  rheumatism  in  it,  you  come  up  to  the 
Princess  Marie  Louise.  We'll  take  care  of  you." 

I  translated.  Monsieur  Pavignon  seemed  in 
pain.  His  features  contracted,  he  choked  with 
the  stifled  laughter  of  years  set  free.  He  apolo- 
gized when  he  regained  his  breath,  and  wiped 
his  eyes.  Ah !  It  did  me  good  to  see  him,  dear 
old  Pavignon,  for  I  knew  the  game  was  won;  and 
in  my  enthusiasm  I  whispered  in  Mrs.  Casey's 
small,  crimson  ear: 

"Whin  ye  git  to  Heaven,  there'll  be  an  angel 
waiting  to  presint  ye  with  a  diamond  ring  for 
the  good  work  ye've  done  to-night.  Mind  what 
I'm  tellin'  ye!" 

And  I  think  she  understood,  bless  her  heart! 

Little  by  little  I  had  watched  him  shed  the 
haunted  mantle  of  his  neurasthenia.  The  tragic 
mask  was  gone.  To-night  there  was  a  new  light 


284    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

in  his  eyes.  He  paced  no  longer  with  his  hands 
clasped  behind  him.  He  stuck  them  jauntily 
in  his  pockets,  and  filled  his  lungs  with  the  tang 
of  the  good  salt  sea. 

As  we  walked  the  deck  together  late  that  night, 
long  after  the  smoking  room  had  closed,  Pavig- 
non  grew  strangely  silent.  We  had  forged  ahead, 
breasting  the  lee  side,  past  the  flapping  wind- 
break of  canvas,  when  he  stopped  abruptly,  and 
held  out  his  hand. 

:'You  have  made  me  very  happy,"  he  said 
simply,  and  I  thought  I  detected  for  the  first 
time  in  days  the  old  tremor  in  his  voice  as  he 
added:  "How  can  I  ever  repay  you?" 

"But  you  have,"  I  laughed,  as  we  swung  in 
step  again  past  the  empty  chairs  until  we  gained 
the  companionway  and  he  bade  me  good-night. 

I  was  at  work  on  a  manuscript  in  the  smoking 
room  the  next  morning  when  he  entered,  called 
to  me  a  cheery  "Bonjour!"  selected  a  table  in  a 
far  corner,  and,  opening  an  old-fashioned  port- 
folio, extracted  from  its  leather  depths  a  mass  of 
papers,  which  he  arranged  neatly  before  him, 


UNDINE  285 

and,  like  myself,  was  soon  busy  with  his  pen. 
The  wind  had  changed  to  southwest  again,  and 
both  decks  and  the  smoking  room  were  deserted. 
Not  until  the  second  bugle  call  for  luncheon  did 
he  look  up  from  his  work.  Evidently  some 
papers  relative  to  his  property  in  New  Orleans, 
thought  I,  although  I  was  naturally  not  indis- 
creet enough  to  inquire. 

All  that  afternoon,  as  we  rolled  in  a  heavy  sea, 
his  pen  scratched  on  while  I  worked;  and  the  next 
day,  and  the  following,  found  him  as  diligently  at 
his  task.  To-night  even  our  merry  corner  was 
deserted,  for  the  sea  ran  high,  one  deck  being 
untenable,  and  the  lee  deck  being  little  better. 

We  were  struggling  along  with  linked  arms  on 
the  spray-thrashed  lee  side  before  going  to  bed, 
when  he  again  point-blank  mentioned  his  debt 
to  me. 

"Nonsense!"  I  believe  I  exclaimed  by  way  of 
turning  an  embarrassing  subject. 

"You  see,"  he  continued,  despite  my  effort 
to  change  his  trend  of  mind,  "I  am  poor.  I 
have  nothing  to  offer  you,  my  friend,  in  return. 
And  so,  knowing  you  write,  I  —  I  have  a  little 


286    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

story  for  you,"  he  continued.  "I  have,  indeed, 
just  been  able  to  finish  it  to-night.  I  did  not 
think  I  should  get  through  before  we  landed,  but 
I  have  worked  steadily,  as  you  may  have  ob- 
served. Once  I  wrote  a  little  myself,"  he  went 
on  earnestly.  "Before  the  death  of  my  wife. 
Indeed,  you  must  know  that  the  story  I  have  to 
the  best  of  my  modest  talent  been  able  to  com- 
plete for  you,  although  you  will  find,  I  fear,  the 
latter  chapters  somewhat  condensed,  I  began 
many  years  ago.  After  the  death  of  my  wife, 
I  said  to  myself:  'I  shall  continue  the  task. 
It  will  serve  to  distract  my  mind/  But  my  sor- 
row was  too  great.  Besides,  I  found  it  utterly 
impossible  to  write  of  a  woman.  Moreover,  I 
was  forced  to  earn  my  bread,  and  in  my  modest 
position  in  the  administration  of  the  company 
of  gas,  where  I  worked  daily  in  Paris,  the  hours 
are  long,  as  you  know." 

He  drew  from  his  overcoat  pocket  a  tight  roll 
of  manuscript,  and  thrust  it  into  my  hand. 

"I  have  entitled  it  'Undine,' "  said  he.  "The 
story,"  he  went  on  rapidly  to  explain  as  we 
turned  in  out  of  the  wet,  "begins,  as  you  will  see, 


UNDINE  287 

with  a  shipwreck  in  the  tropics.  The  only  sur- 
vivor, a  young  man,  finds  himself  upon  a  desert 
island,  where,  in  his  lonely  wanderings,  he  one 
day  discovers  two  skeletons  —  those  of  a  woman 
and  a  man.  Presently  he  sees  beyond,  on  a 
point  of  sand,  a  charming  silhouette;  that  of  a 
young  girl  bathing  —  blonde,  seventeen,  ador- 
able, lithe,  with  blue  eyes  deep  as  the  azure  sea. 
She  had  grown  up,  survived,  like  some  wild  bird 
on  the  island.  Finally  she  makes  known  to  him, 
in  her  strange  jargon,  and  by  signs,  that  the  skel- 
etons are  those  of  her  parents.  They,  too,  have 
been  shipwrecked,  long  ago,  when  she  was  little." 

"Naturally  they  fall  in  love,"  I  interposed. 

"  Naturally.  Enfin!  To  be  brief,  he  tells  her  of 
his  world  beyond  the  great  sea,  of  life.  After 
months,  the  lovers  are  rescued  by  a  passing  ship, 
and  he  takes  her,  whom  he  calls  Undine,  to  Paris, 
educates  her,  and  they  are  married.  Eh,  voilal " 

"But,"  I  protested,  "you  must  not  give  me 
this.  Ah,  no,  my  dear  friend!  Your  narrative, 
so  ravishing  of  the  little  Undine,  is  yours,  not 
mine.  And,  besides,  after  all  these  years  you 
have  been  developing  it." 


288    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

:<You  will  give  me  that  pleasure,"  he  insisted 
quietly,  and  so  earnestly  that  I  dared  not  risk 
again  offending  him.  "Even  should  it  serve  to 
no  other  purpose  than  as  a  little  souvenir  of  our 
voyage  so  bizarre  among  your  people." 

"Save  it,"  I  begged  him,  "for  your  old  age  - 
you  who  are  now  young  again." 

He  smiled,  seemingly  embarrassed,  yet  there 
was  no  mistaking  the  light  in  his  blue  eyes. 

"You  do  not  know  the  joy  of  recasting,  of 
polishing,  and  repolishing  your  absorbing  little 
romance,  which  you  began  as  a  labour  of  love 
for  yourself,"  I  ventured  to  explain.  "  You 
who  are  free  and  are  not  forced  to  grind  out  ad- 
ventures of  the  heart  under  the  relentless  tyr- 
anny of  cold-blooded  editors,  whose  sole  aim  is 
to  increase  their  circulation  by  pampering  to  a 
prudish,  fickle,  and  hypercritical  public  —  ah, 
I  know  my  good  Pavignon.  I  have  tried  it! 
lLe  vrai  amour9  is  unknown  among  my  people. 
It  is  not  understood.  It  is  not  sanctioned.  It  is 
a  criminal  offence.  Parbleu!  But  on  marriage  and 
divorce  they  are  experts.  You  would  have  been 
obliged  to  procure  for  your  delicious  little  Un- 


UNDINE  289 

dine  first  a  bathing  suit,  and  then  a  chaperon." 
He  broke  out  into  a  hearty  laugh,  forcing 
"Undine"  deep  into  my  pocket;  and,  before  I 
could  stop  him,  had  waved  me  a  cheery  "  Bon- 
soir! "  and  was  halfway  down  the  rubber  steps  on 
his  way  to  his  cabin. 

Two  years  had  slipped  by  since  we  parted  on 
the  dock  at  Hoboken.  A  month  later  I  re- 
turned to  Paris,  and,  save  for  a  letter  upon  his  ar- 
rival at  New  Orleans,  I  had  heard  nothing  of  him. 

One  late  afternoon  in  June  found  me  moving 
with  the  current  of  humanity  up  the  boulevard. 
I  had  passed  the  Cafe  Riche,  and  had  halted  to 
cross  the  Rue  Le  Peletier,  when  a  firm  hand 
gripped  my  shoulder. 

It  was  Pavignon! 

You  can  imagine  my  delight  at  meeting,  with 
what  enthusiasm  we  turned  back  to  the  cafe  for 
our  aperitif,  our  long  talk,  and  how  eagerly  I 
accepted  his  invitation  to  luncheon  on  the  mor- 
row. What  a  change  had  come  over  him! 
Though  he  had  grown  grayer,  he  looked  ten 
years  younger  —  the  last  haggard  lines  gone 


290    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

from  his  face,  and  only  the  seams  of  his  genial 
smile  left  in  their  place. 

"I  have  a  surprise  for  you,"  he  confessed  as 
we  parted. 

"Another  story?"  I  laughed. 

"A  longer  one,"  he  returned  mysteriously. 
" Do  not  be  late.  We  shall  lunch  at  noon;"  and 
he  rushed  for  his  omnibus. 

Had  you  not  been  familiar  with  the  Butte  de 
Montmartre,  you  would,  I  am  sure,  have  had 
difficulty  in  finding  Monsieur  Pavignon's  domi- 
cile. The  summit  of  the  Butte,  which  is  the 
cranium  of  Paris,  bristles  with  tangled  old  gar- 
dens, and  is  scarred  by  a  labyrinth  of  narrow 
lanes  sunk  between  ancient  walls,  whose  wounds 
time  has  healed  by  lichens. 

Monsieur  Pavignon's  lane  I  knew  by  heart  - 
a  short,  silent,  exclusive  little  lane,  composed  of 
two  zigzags  and  a  twist.  My  old  friend,  Fre- 
mentin,  the  sculptor  in  wood,  lived  at  the  lower 
end  of  this  snug  byway  for  years.  So  did 
Louise  Rollet,  who  posed  for  him  —  but  that  is 
another  romance.  Monsieur  Pavignon  lived  in 
the  middle,  the  third  door  to  the  left,  an  ancient 


UNDINE  291 

door  incased  by  a  wall  even  older  than  the  door, 
and  over  whose  rambling  top  ran  a  riot  of  vines. 

I  had  arrived  at  his  threshold  punctually  at 
noon,  pulled  at  a  wire,  agitating  a  garrulous  little 
bell  within  the  garden,  and  waited. 

Then  the  door  opened,  and  I  looked  up  into 
a  pair  of  blue  eyes,  and  two  frank,  fair,  white 
hands  were  held  forth  to  me  in  so  informal  a  wel- 
come that  I  only  half  caught  sight  of  Pavignon 
over  my  hostess's  shoulder  running  to  greet  me. 

"Married!  Yes,  indeed!  Ah,  my  dear  old 
friend,  and  you  never  told  me!" 

We  were  together,  all  three  of  us  now,  moving 
among  the  roses  and  the  mignonette  to  an  invit- 
ing table  sheltered  by  the  sturdy  arms  of  an 
apple  tree,  still  green  in  its  old  age,  and  through 
whose  cool  leaves  the  warm  sunshine  touched  her 
fair,  blond  hair,  faintly  streaked  with  gray. 

Close  by,  snug  among  the  flowers,  stood  their 
nest.  Its  ancient,  gabled  roof  showing  above 
the  tangle. 

It  was  twilight  when  I  descended  the  Butte 
-alone.  It  is  not  gay  to  be  alone.  "At  seven- 
teen," I  said  to  myself,  "Madame  Pavignon 


292    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

must  have  been  adorably  beautiful."  And,  as  I 
recalled  her  slight  figure  and  her  gentle  voice, 
there  came  to  me  in  the  dusk  the  memory  of  her 
blue  eyes,  "deep  as  the  azure  sea,"  and  her  fair 
hair,  which  the  warm  sun  had  turned  to  gold. 

Had  he,  after  all,  refound  the  Undine  of  his 
youth?  I  wondered.  And,  as  I  mused,  there 
came  to  me  the  vision  of  a  calm,  opal  sea,  and  a 
young  girl  bathing,  frail  as  a  flower  at  its  mur- 
muring edge. 

And  so  I  trod  on  my  lonely  way  down  to  the 
lights  of  Paris,  lights  that  glittered  to-night  as  I 
gazed  down  upon  them,  cold  as  a  shroud  of 
diamonds  shriving  a  wilderness  of  souls. 

Now  and  then  I  meet  Pavignon  on  the  Rue  des  Martyrs 
and  we  have  a  vermouth  together,  and  I  am  still  trying  to 
translate  to  him  the  local  humour  of  Blaumenheil.  He  has 
often  told  me  he  has  tried  to  explain  it  to  Madame  Pavignon. 
To  him  we  are  still  "bizarre,"  and  he  still  laughs  over  our 
good  voyage  together. — F.  B.  S. 


CHAPTER  NINE 
THERESE 


CHAPTER  NINE 

THERESE 

NO  WONDER  the  Infant  fell  in  love  with 
her.     He  was  not  the  only  one  in  the  Latin 
Quarter  who  had  fallen  in  love  with  Therese. 

From  that  first  afternoon,  in  the  stuffy  little 
Cafe  du  Dragon,  just  across  the  street  from  the 
Atelier  Julian,  where  they  had  met  by  chance  at 
the  aperitif  hour  among  a  crowd  of  painters,  the 
Infant's  elastic  heart  had  changed.  None  of  the 
dozens  of  models  he  knew,  and  whose  addresses 
he  kept  scrawled  in  charcoal  on  the  wall  of  his 
studio,  any  longer  interested  him  —  not  even 

295 


296    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

the  few  he  had  grown  serious  over  in  the  last 
two  years.  Therese  was  everything  to  him  now. 
He  found  himself  in  odd  moments  drawing  from 
memory  her  exquisite  profile  on  the  paint- 
smeared  wall  —  well  away  from  the  addresses; 
one  does  not  install  a  goddess  among  the  com- 
mon herd.  At  night  he  lay  awake  thinking  of 
her.  By  day  he  dreamed  of  her  in  a  brown  study 
as  he  walked  through  the  Luxembourg  Gardens 
these  late  afternoons  in  September.  At  Julian's 
he  forgot  the  living  model  before  him  daily,  and 
half  consciously  drew  Therese,  until  old  Vacinet, 
who  corrected,  was  forced  to  remind  him  that 
mademoiselle  before  him  was  not  spiritual,  but 
on  the  contrary  as  sturdy  and  muscular  as  a  Nor- 
man peasant. 

Therese  had  promised  to  pose  for  him.  Ther- 
ese had  also  promised  to  pose  for  me.  In  fact, 
she  rapped  once  at  my  door  when  I  was  out  and 
Marie  invited  her  in  and  made  her  a  cup  of  tea, 
but  somehow  she  drew  the  line  at  the  Infant.  He 
had  pleaded  as  eager  as  a  child  across  the  crowded 
table  in  the  Cafe  du  Dragon,  but  she  had 
only  smiled  —  and  promised -- those  vague 


THERESE  297 

promises  that  women  give  when  they  are  in 
earnest. 

Ah,  how  his  heart  beat  as  he  left  that  noisy 
crowd  in  the  stuffy  little  Cafe  du  Dragon  after 
she  had  gone!  She  had  pressed  his  hand  on 
leaving  —  a  frank  pressure  of  camaraderie  which 
the  Infant  wholly  misunderstood,  but  which 
warmed  him,  elated  him  and  sent  him  back  to 
his  work  proud  and  happy. 

When  the  Infant  was  happy  he  grinned.  He 
was  a  stocky  little  chap,  hard  as  oak  and  quick  as 
a  cat.  He  had  come  to  Paris  fresh  from  the 
saddle  in  Montana,  where  he  slept  under  the 
stars  and  ranged  cattle  for  a  living  and  nurtured 
a  longing  in  his  chest  that  he  wanted  to  paint. 
His  voice  was  pitched  low;  his  jaw,  when  shut 
with  decision,  was  as  hard  as  a  bent  nail;  but  you 
had  only  to  look  into  his  clear  blue  eyes  to  see 
that  he  was  reeking  with  sentiment.  I  think  it 
was  Marie  Vinet,  a  little  model,  who  used  to 
come  to  the  Cafe  du  D6me,  who  first  nicknamed 
him  the  " Infant"  —  yes,  I  am  sure  it  was  Marie; 
and  being  only  twenty-four,  the  Infant  accepted 
the  sobriquet  with  a  grin. 


298    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

Therese!  The  image  of  her  tall,  lithe,  slim 
figure  —  her  brilliant  almond-shaped  eyes,  her 
intensely  black  hair,  which  she  wore  in  a  bandeau 
hah*  hiding  the  tips  of  her  small  pink  ears,  the 
ivory  whiteness  of  her  skin,  filled  him  with  a 
memory  as  fascinating  as  that  seductive  smile  of 
hers  which  displayed  her  white  teeth  and  accen- 
tuated, when  her  features  were  in  repose,  the 
shortness  of  her  upper  lip.  Thus  Therese  always 
appeared  to  be  smiling;  she  had  but  to  half  close 
her  eyes  to  make  the  illusion  complete. 

When  she  walked  she  seemed  to  glide,  scarcely 
lifting  her  slim  feet  from  the  ground;  and  when 
she  sat,  it  was  with  all  the  subtle  modelling  of  her 
lithe,  erect  figure,  her  chin  slightly  elevated, 
gazing  at  you  with  the  gracious  reserve  of  an 
empress  and  the  sauciness  of  a  gamine. 

Therese  was  twenty -three  years  old.  It  was 
amazing  to  the  Infant  how  much  she  knew,  but 
not  to  Davidge  and  myself  —  granted  she  could 
talk  upon  many  subjects  that  were  intellectually 
too  far  advanced  for  either  Mimi  or  Marie. 
She  knew  a  little  of  medicine,  a  little  of  sculpture, 
a  little  of  surgery,  and  spoke  of  technique  —  of 


THERESE  299 

impressionism  and  the  modern  school.  Davidge 
and  myself  were  too  old  rats  in  the  Quarter  not 
to  be  able  to  distinguish  this  clever  varnish  she 
had  picked  up  here  and  there  from  knowledge; 
but  you  could  not  convince  the  Infant  that  it 
was  simply  varnish  —  he  knew  better. 

It  was  the  week  after  she  posed  for  him  as  she 
had  promised  that  the  Infant  strolled  into  Dav- 
idge's  studio  for  a  chat.  Poor  Infant !  He  had 
found  Therese  as  difficult  to  make  love  to  as  the 
rest  of  us.  She  was  very,  very  serious  with  him, 
and  kind  —  more  like  a  sister  than  anything 
else;  and  that  was  all.  He  had  told  her  he  loved 
her,  like  many  another,  and  she  only  smiled  and 
patted  his  cheek  with  the  same  camaraderie  with 
which  she  had  pressed  his  hand.  It  was  that 
friendly  pat  which  kept  the  Infant  from  despair. 
And  so  in  this  state  of  hopeful  misery  the  Infant 
had  come  over  for  a  chat  with  Davidge.  He  was 
lonely  and  wanted  some  one  to  talk  to. 

"And  you  say  you  consider  Therese  wise? 
You  baby!"  chuckled  Davidge.  He  gripped 
his  red-pointed  beard  and  peered  down  between 
his  long  dangling  legs  from  his  painter's  scaf- 


300    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

folding  at  the  Infant  squatting  on  his  studio 
floor,  gingerly  knocking  the  ashes  from  his  pipe 
against  the  sole  of  his  shoe. 

"She  knows  a  lot,"  he  returned  slowly  with 
conviction,  "about  —  well,  take  for  instance 
what  she  knows  alone  about  medicine  —  and  — 
and  —  operations  —  and " 

"Of  course  she  does;  a  superficial  varnish. 
Infant,  nothing  else,"  interrupted  Davidge,  "not 
real  knowledge."  There  was  old  Poubonet  - 
one  of  the  most  skillful  surgeons  in  Paris;  he 
adored  Therese.  Mademoiselle  could  not  help 
gleaning  from  his  companionship  a  few  house- 
hold hints  and  remedies. 

"Tell  me  she  is  beautiful,"  continued  Dav- 
idge, "and  I'll  agree  with  you.  She  is  —  very 
beautiful.  You're  a  lucky  dog  to  have  got  her 
to  pose  for  you,  but  the  profound  knowledge  you 
imagine  Therese  possesses  is  pure  unadulterated 
vernis  —  Parisian  varnish  of  the  best  quality, 
and  as  deceiving  as  the  enamel  on  a  false  pearl. 
Scratch  through  it  some  day  and  see  for  yourself. 
The  oracle  you  rave  about  will  prove  to  be  a 
myth,  and  you  will  find  beneath  that  enamel  the 


THERESE  301 

brain  of  a  coquette  and  the  simple  heart  of  a 
blanchisseuse.  That  is  really  what  Therese  once 
was,  my  boy,  like  a  thousand  other  models  in 
the  Quarter.  The  Bois  de  Boulogne  is  full  of 
them  any  afternoon;  you  can  distinguish  them 
by  the  crests  on  their  victorias." 

The  Infant  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"That's  it;  go  on!"  he  cried.  "Davidge, 
you're  too  blase;  you're  an  ascetic  old  cynic.  I 
tell  you,  there  is  not  a  human  being  in  the  world 
who  has  not  his  or  her  interesting  side,  and  I'm 
glad  I  can  see  some  good  in  every  one.  You're 
wrong  about  Therese,"  he  insisted. 

"Therese  and  Courtois  and  myself  dined  to- 
gether at  the  Chat  Rouge  last  night,"  continued 
the  Infant.  "Most  of  the  old  crowd  were  there 
-  Rene  Cassin,  Anette,  Forbes,  Billy  Anderson, 
the  Empress,  Dutoit  and  the  rest.  Therese  kept 
them  listening  for  hours.  She  has  her  theories, 
you  know,  about  the  psychology  of  love,  and 
talked  a  lot  about  jade  cutting  among  the 
ancients  and  the  technique  of  the  Dutch 
school." 

"Gave  you  a  little  of  each,   eh?"   queried 


302    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

Davidge,  "while  she  helped  you  to  the  hors- 
d'ceuvres?" 

"And  her  memory  was  something  surprising," 
continued  the  Infant,  undeterred  in  his  enthu- 
siasm. "There  is  hardly  a  verse  of  Paul  Ver- 
laine's,  Therese  does  not  know  by  heart." 

"There  you  go  again,"  interrupted  the  painter, 
squeezing  a  fresh  pat  of  Chinese  vermilion  on  to 
his  pallette;  and  turning  to  the  big  canvas 
squared  up  in  front  of  the  scaffold,  he  proceeded 
to  lay  in  the  flesh  tones  of  a  flying  cherub  among 
a  bevy  of  nymphs  still  in  a  stage  of  charcoal  and 
smudge. 

"How's  that?  Too  strong?"  he  called  down 
to  the  Infant,  referring  to  the  pink  smear  on  the 
fugitive  God  of  Love. 

"It's  all  right,"  replied  the  Infant,  eying  the 
canvas.  "Wait  until  that  ceiling  decoration  of 
yours  gets  in  place;  you  will  need  all  the  forced 
colour  you're  slapping  into  it  now  to  carry  it." 

"Therese  displayed  the  keenest  insight  into 
characters,"  the  Infant  went  on.  "  Why,  she  de- 
scribed Courtois  and  myself  to  a  T!" 

"Ho,  ho!"  roared  Davidge,  wheeling  arou 


THERESE  303 

from  his  work.  "That  was  the  easiest  problem 
you  put  to  your  adorable  sphinx?  It  was  like 
taking  a  watch  to  a  watchmaker." 

The  Infant  reddened. 

"No  offence,  old  boy,"  added  Davidge  by  way 
of  apology,  as  he  climbed  down  from  the  scaffold 
for  a  rest  and  a  cigarette;  but  you  can  see  exactly 
what  I  mean.  When  you  touched  on  the  ques- 
tion of  men  you  were  in  the  presence  of  an  ex- 
pert." 

"She  did  not  roast  either  of  us  hah5  as  much  as 
we  expected,"  confessed  the  Infant,  gouging  the 
bowl  of  his  pipe  into  the  remnants  of  a  sack  of 
Virginia. 

"And  you  and  mademoiselle  will  of  course 
dine  again  at  the  Chat  Rouge?  "  laughed  Davidge. 

"Thursday  night,"  confessed  the  Infant, 
brightening.  "  Will  you  come  ?  " 

"Delicious!"  exclaimed  the  painter,  bending 
over  in  his  voluminous  corduroy  trousers,  as  he 
scooped  a  scuttleful  of  coal  from  the  bottom  of 
his  coalbox  and  sent  the  contents  clattering  into 
the  small  stove. 

"Yes,  I'll  come,"  he  said  after  a  moment's 


304    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

hesitation;  "but  you'll  have  to  stake  me  through, 
if  I  do.  I'm  not  eating  this  week  —  that  is,  not 
in  public;  I  won't  have  a  sou  until  the  twenty- 
third.  Bartet  and  I  have  been  dining  here  in 
the  studio.  We've  got  trust  at  the  grocery  in 
the  Rue  de  Rennes;  the  fellow  who  keeps  it  is  a 
pal  of  Bartet's  —  they  were  in  the  same  regiment 
together." 

"You  can  have  anything  I've  got,"  said  the 
Infant.  He  meant  it,  although  he  was  then 
carrying  the  remnant  of  his  monthly  stipend  in 
the  corner  of  his  vest  pocket. 

"Good,  I'll  be  there,"  promised  Davidge  as 
the  Infant  took  his  leave. 

A  narrow  flight  of  stairs  wound  in  a  spiral 
about  an  iron  column  and  served  as  the  sole 
means  of  access  to  a  smoky,  genial  little  room 
above  the  cafe  of  the  Chat  Rouge,  where  many 
of  those  who  entered  nightly  were  greeted  with  a 
welcoming  cheer  and  often  with  a  kiss  from  some 
Berthe  or  Mimi  or  Celestine.  They  were  like 
one  big  family,  those  good  boys  and  girls,  and 
their  hearts  were  of  gold. 


THERESE  805 

Such  hours  as  these  often  came  at  the  end  of  a 
hard  day's  work  or  worry.  It  is  never  all  play 
in  Bohemia;  it  is  the  most  serious  land  I  know. 

These  stairs  were  a  spiral  flight  that  led  to 
Paradise.  How  many  brutal  hobnailed  shoes 
of  idle  painters  had  polished  those  steps!  How 
many  froufrous  and  trim  ankles  had  flashed  up 
them!  The  high  heels  of  Celeste  and  the  tiny 
boots  of  Marie,  all  up  those  stairs,  all  joyously 
tripping  up  to  a  bouillabaisse  fit  not  only  for  a 
king  but  for  a  latter  day  grisette  and  her  sweet- 
heart, both  of  whom  are  as  good  judges  of  a 
bouillabaisse  as  any  of  the  crowned  heads,  and 
quite  as  exacting.  Madame  Jolivet,  who  cooked 
the  famous  dish,  knew  this.  That  is  why  this 
famous  potpourri  of  lobster  and  little  fishes,  of 
spices  and  herbs  and  things  tart  and  sour  and 
sweet  and  peppery,  was  often  delayed  in  the 
smoky  little  kitchen  below  stairs  for  a  final  touch 
of  this  and  a  pinch  of  that  before  the  beaming 
Adolphe,  his  white  apron  reaching  to  the  toes  of 
his  cracked  but  carefully  polished  boots,  came 
stamping  up  the  spiral  flight  with  the  noble  dish 
at  last  ready  to  serve,  steaming,  savoury  and  fit 


306    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

for  the  gods,  and  was  greeted  as  soon  as  he  thrust 
his  head  in  the  door  with  cries  of:  "Oh!  Que 
c'est  beau!"  and  a  clattering,  banging,  yelling 
bedlam  of  like  badinage,  all  of  which  the  smiling 
Adolphe,  his  broad,  honest  face  red  from  the 
glare  of  the  kitchen  fire,  enjoyed  hugely  and  re- 
turned this  good-natured  chaff  with  timely 
repartee  all  out  of  his  bald  head. 

For  Adolphe  was  a  Marseillais,  and  a  Marseil- 
lais,  they  say,  is  never  at  a  loss  for  a  word.  What 
he  said  was  merry,  good-natured  and  respectful, 
and  guarded  with  as  much  fact  as  if  he  were  ad- 
dressing his  own  children,  if  he  had  any  —  and 
they  say  he  had  five. 

Verily  it  was  a  dinner  enfamille. 

How  many  such  families  grow  up  in  Bohemia 
—  until  one  by  one  this  one  and  that  one  drifts 
away,  and  one  wonders  whether  if  ever  again  life 
will  seem  as  dear  and  as  sweet. 

The  cafe  shutters  of  the  Chat  Rouge  were  bat- 
tened in  place  and  the  chairs  stacked  on  the  tables 
for  the  night,  when  the  party  of  four,  consisting 
of  Therese,  Courtois,  Davidge  and  the  Infant, 
opened  the  door  at  the  head  of  the  spiral  flight. 


THERESE  307 

Down  the  quartette  came,  Therese  singing  one 
of  Delmet's  ballads,  Courtois  lending  a  noble 
bass,  Davidge  a  wavering  tenor,  and  the  Infant 
filling  in  the  gaps  mostly  off  the  key. 

It  had  been  a  beautiful  dinner,  and  they  had 
remained  long  after  the  rest  of  the  old  crowd  who 
shared  the  dingy  little  dining  room  had  gone. 

It  was  after  two  in  the  morning  when  the 
quartette  closed  the  door  of  the  Chat  Rouge  be- 
hind them.  A  winter  fog  hung  cold  and  damp  in 
the  chill  air,  a  fog  that  had  a  chill  in  it  like  the  ah* 
from  a  refrigerator.  For  some  minutes  the  four 
stood  chatting  on  the  pavement.  An  open  fiacre, 
prowling  for  a  late  trip,  came  clattering  up 
to  the  group,  the  small  rawboned  horse  sliding 
most  of  the  way  to  the  gutter  on  the  fog-slimed 
cobbles. 

Courtois  wrapped  his  coat  about  him,  and  say- 
ing good-night,  swung  off  in  the  direction  of  his 
studio,  Davidge  accompanying  him  as  far  as  the 
Impasse  du  Maine.  Thus  Therese  and  the  In- 
fant were  left  alone. 

Now  that  they  were  alone  —  for  a  cocker  does 
not  count  any  more  than  his  horse  —  the  Infant 


308    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

had  grown  strangely  silent.  He  would  have  said 
much,  but  he  dared  not.  The  truth  was,  he  did 
not  like  the  idea  of  Therese  going  home  alone  at 
that  hour,  and  she  had  stayed  with  them  late 
under  the  distinct  understanding  that  none 
should  be  bothered  with  escorting  her.  Even 
the  Infant's  insistence  had  been  in  vain. 

"Please,"  pleaded  the  Infant  in  a  final  appeal 
as  they  stood  beside  the  nighthawk;  but  Therese 
shook  her  head. 

:<You  are  not  going  to  take  me  home,"  she 
added  with  final  decision.  "I  live,  as  you  know, 
in  Montmartre;  it  is  nearly  three  miles  from 
here." 

"Nonsense,"  replied  the  Infant;  "I  shall  get 
back  to  my  studio  before  daylight.  I  am  not 
going  to  let  you  go  home  alone.  Please  be  rea- 
sonable. It  is  too  far;  it  is  too  late;  besides,  the 
horse  cannot  go  to  the  top  of  your  street.  I 
know  the  Rue  Lepic;  when  you  leave  your  fiacre 
you  will  have  to  walk  alone  hurriedly,  and  keep 
in  the  shadow  out  of  the  way  of  any  nocturnal 
vagabond  who  comes  along  at  this  hour." 

"But  I  am  not  afraid,"  insisted  Therese;  "the 


THERESE  309 

police  walk  up  my  street  in  pairs.  Besides,  there 
is  a  good  lamp  at  my  corner,  which  makes  it 
bright  to  the  door." 

"And  correspondingly  deepens  the  shadows," 
replied  the  Infant.  "No,  Therese,  you  are  not 
going  alone." 

Therese  closed  her  eyes  smilingly  and  laid  her 
finger  on  the  Infant's  lips. 

"There  is  no  use  arguing  the  matter  with  me; 
I  insist.  You  are  tired,  my  dear  friend,"  she 
said.  :'You  have  a  slight  fever;  and  you  will 
leave  me  and  go  immediately  to  that  box  of 
yours  with  a  skylight  and  go  to  bed.  You  will 
then  get  up  in  the  morning  and  write  me  a  little 
word,  saying  you  are  much  better,  and  will  I 
come  and  dine  with  you  to-morrow  night;  and  I 
will  send  you  a  little  word  saying  I  will.  We 
shall  dine  alone,  you  and  I,  at  Pere  Moret's.  We 
shall  get  a  good  dinner  —  and  cheap.  You  will 
see." 

Her  foot  touched  the  step  of  the  waiting  fiacre 
with  its  coachman  swathed  in  his  blanket. 

"A  bientot"  she  said,  and  suddenly  she  bent 
and  kissed  the  Infant  on  both  cheeks. 


310    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"A  bientot"  replied  the  Infant,  elated  and 
dazed. 

"To  the  Rue  Lepic,  Number  19,"  she  said  to 
the  coachman. 

"Bien,  Madame." 

And  they  were  gone  in  the  raw  mist. 

For  some  moments  the  Infant  stood  gazing 
down  the  deserted  street;  then  he  turned  back  in 
the  direction  of  his  studio.  He  felt  a  certain  con- 
solation in  doing  as  she  had  wished. 

The  route  from  the  Chat  Rouge  in  the  Quar- 
tier  Latin  to  the  steep  hill  across  the  Seine  lead- 
ing to  Montmartre  is  complicated  and  long, 
until  it  reaches  the  steep  Rue  Lepic.  At  night 
along  this  tortuous  course  is  disclosed  the  gamut 
of  human  comedy.  Here  a  senator  is  hurrying 
home  from  a  late  dinner;  there  a  vagabond 
slouches  along  seeking  a  night's  lodging;  at 
another  corner  a  lady  in  an  opera  cloak  steps  into 
her  waiting  coupe;  at  the  next  a  girl  shrugs  her 
shoulders  at  poverty  —  and  waits.  In  the  early 
morning  it  is  like  a  weird  and  ghostly  voyage 
in  the  chill  mist.  The  crooked  streets,  the  lights, 
the  mushroom  growth  of  chimney  pipes  and 


THERESE  311 

uneven  gables  appear  as  if  suspended  in  a  mir- 
age. 

The  horse  that  Therese  had  drawn  in  a  lottery 
for  a  fiacre  at  so  late  an  hour  click-clocked  on 
with  a  swinging  gait.  He  was  a  willing  little 
beast,  and  the  fat  coachman  swathed  in  his  horse 
blanket  chirruped  to  him  an  encouraging  "Hue, 
Cocotte"  at  the  beginning  of  every  street  they 
turned  into.  Right  and  left  they  swung  through 
deserted  byways  of  the  Quarter.  Now  they  zig- 
zagged, first  left,  then  right,  all  in  a  twinkling 
through  a  crooked  ravine  of  a  street  flanked  by 
the  sombre  walls  of  the  Institute  de  France;  it 
is  called  the  Rue  Mazarine,  and  it  brought  them 
out  to  the  river. 

Therese  was  thinking  of  the  Infant.  She  be- 
gan to  compare  him  rapidly  with  other  men.  He 
had  been  considerate;  she  felt  a  certain  con- 
fidence, a  certain  respect,  for  this  young  Ameri- 
can. That  is  why  she  had  posed  for  him  —  she 
felt  safe  with  him.  "Yes,"  she  said  to  herself 
as  the  fiacre  swayed  on,  "he  is  a  child  —  a  big 
child  —  fine  and  simple.  One  does  not  meet  one 
like  him  every  day.*' 


312    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

She  recalled  his  honest  eyes,  his  earnest 
naturalness,  his  enthusiasm.  "I  have  been 
cruel  to  him,"  she  thought;  then  she  checked  her- 
self. "Non,  non;  I  must  not  be  a  fool,"  she  said 
to  herself;  "he  is  too  serious  for  that." 

Therese  shrank  back  in  the  moist  dust-smeared 
cushions  of  the  fiacre  and  dozed. 

When  they  crossed  the  Pont  du  Carrousel  she 
opened  her  eyes;  the  black  river  swung  beneath 
the  bridge;  coloured  ribbons  of  light  from  the 
lantern  of  the  sister  bridge  above  wriggled  deep 
down  in  the  inky  water.  In  a  few  moments  they 
had  rattled  over  the  vast  cobbled  court  of  the 
Louvre  and  had  turned  into  the  Rue  de  Rivoli. 

"  Hurry,  my  old  one!  "  cried  Therese,  starting 
again  out  of  a  nap. 

"It  is  understood,  Madame,"  replied  the 
coachman. 

Therese  fell  asleep.  When  she  awoke  again 
the  fiacre  was  rattling  along  past  the  markets, 
down  into  that  damp  valley  occupied  by  the 
great  market  east  of  the  Boulevard  Sebastopol, 
one  of  the  roughest  quarters  at  night  in  Paris. 
The  long  line  of  vegetable  carts  that  had  crawled 


THERESE  313 

half  the  night  from  outlying  farms  into  the  city 
with  their  swinging  lanterns  and  their  drivers 
asleep  now  stood  with  the  horses  out  of  the 
shafts.  Tons  of  cabbages,  carrots  and  potatoes 
were  heaped  in  square  piles  even  with  the  curb- 
stones, and  groups  of  men  in  blue  blouses  were 
talking  in  low  tones  about  them  in  the  dim  light 
of  the  cart  lanterns.  The  air  hung  heavy  with 
the  reek  of  vegetables. 

"Where  are  you  going,  cocker?"  cried  Therese, 
now  thoroughly  awake. 

Either  the  man  was  asleep  himself,  drunk  or 
misleading  her. 

"Madame  said  she  wished  to  go  to-  the  Rue 
Delique;  this  is  the  shortest  way." 

"Rue  Lepic,  I  said,  stupid  —  Number  19." 

"It  is  understood,  Madame,"  answered  the 
man  muffled  in  the  horse  blanket;  "then  we  shall 
turn  back." 

He  rattled  into  a  side  street,  one  of  a  dozen 
lying  between  the  market  and  the  Boulevard 
Sebastopol,  swung  through  a  black  slit  of  a  street, 
turned  into  an  alley,  rumbled  through  a  passage 
and  emerged  into  a  straight  thoroughfare 


314    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

lined  with  business  houses,  and  taking  another 
turn  to  the  left,  roused  his  horse  into  a  smart  trot. 

It  seemed  impossible  for  Therese  to  keep 
awake.  The  very  effort  of  lifting  her  eyelids 
pained  her.  When  she  awoke  again  she  was 
beyond  the  limit  of  the  Rue  Vaugirard  and 
among  the  ruins  of  deserted  factories.  The 
horse  was  running  and  the  man  was  lashing  him. 
Therese  was  awake  now  —  very  much  awake, 
with  every  nerve  in  her  lithe  body  quivering. 
It  would  have  been  useless  to  have  jumped  out. 
Out!  Where?  In  that  road  where  every  shadow 
might  hold  a  footpad  only  too  glad  to  have 
encountered  a  pretty  woman  away  from  the 
assistance  of  the  police?  She  recalled  the 
Infant's  words.  The  police  seldom  ventured  out 
there,  and  when  they  did  they  walked  by  fours. 

Suddenly  the  steaming  horse  stopped.  Therese 
instinctively  sprang  to  her  feet,  but  the  ruffian 
on  the  box  was  too  quick  for  her. 

'Not  so  fast,  my  little  lady,"  he  leered,  thrust- 
ing his  face  close  to  hers. 

"  I  understand,"  she  said  coolly.  "  Well,  what 
do  you  want?" 


THERESE  315 

The  eyes  of  the  man  glinted  for  an  instant  at 
the  heavy  silver  and  jewelled  necklace  about  her 
throat  —  the  one  the  sculptor  Targelle  had  once 
fashioned  for  her,  and  which  Therese  wore  in  his 
memory. 

"That's  good  merchandise  you've  got  there, 
my  chicken,"  he  leered.  "I  don't  want  that; 
I've  got  plenty  of  my  own.  I'm  good  to  my 
woman,  I  am." 

Therese  grew  cold  all  over;  for  a  moment  she 
laboured  for  her  breath. 

"Ah,  zut!"  snarled  the  man,  leaning  back  over 
his  box.  "  Who  are  you,  little  blanchisseuse,  that 
you  should  give  yourself  the  airs  of  a  grande 
dame?  So  you  think  I  have  run  my  good  horse 
over  here  for  nothing?  You  might  play  that  on 
your  prince,  but  not  on  me,  gamine." 

A  something  akin  to  the  accumulating  strength 
a  leopard  feels  before  springing  rose  within  her. 
She  was  no  longer  cold;  she  became  hot  with 
sudden  frenzy.  The  sinews  in  her  lithe  body 
under  this  sudden  tension  of  desperation  became 
like  steel.  She  slipped  her  hand  into  her  pocket 
and  wound  her  slender  fingers  with  a  tightening 


316    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

grip  about  the  handle  of  her  night  key,  its  old- 
fashioned  steel  shank  protruding  from  her 
clenched  fist.  Simultaneously  the  horse  gave  a 
sudden  start  and  the  ruffian  hah3  lost  his  balance; 
the  next  instant  he  regained  his  equilibrium  and 
his  coarse  red  hand  fell  like  the  paw  of  a  bear  on 
her  throat.  Then  it  was  that  all  the  pent-up 
desperation  broke  within  her.  In  a  frenzy  she 
struck  her  assailant  a  swinging  blow  that  sent 
the  steel  key  ripping  in  a  jagged  gash  from  the 
eye  to  the  jaw.  The  horse  bolted,  and  the  man, 
losing  his  balance,  tumbled  from  his  box.  As 
he  did  so  his  right  leg  slipped  between  the  spokes 
of  the  wheel. 

Therese  jumped  and  was  thrown  into  the  ditch 
by  the  roadside  from  the  momentum  of  the  lurch- 
ing fiacre.  She  crawled  to  her  knees.  The 
fiacre  was  fast  disappearing,  swaying  away  in 
zigzags  in  the  gloom  of  the  road,  while  the  ruffian 
screamed  in  agony  at  every  revolution  of  the 
wheel  of  torture  that  mercilessly  wrenched  and 
snapped  his  bones  as  the  frightened  horse  bolted 
on.  Presently  the  man's  cries  grew  fainter  and 
a  bend  in  the  road  hid  the  runaway  from  view. 


THERESE  317 

Therese  staggered  painfully  to  her  feet.  She 
dared  not  cry  out  for  help  in  that  deserted  dis- 
trict, where  every  second  shadow  might  screen 
some  cut-throat.  Keener  than  the  physical 
pain  and  the  fever  her  experience  had  caused, 
was  the  agony  of  fear.  She  trudged  on  in  the 
direction  of  the  city  limits,  the  screams  of  the 
man  linked  to  the  wheel  ringing  in  her  ears. 
The  man  was  evidently  dead  or  nearly  so. 
Should  the  police  chance  to  discover  him  mangled 
by  the  roadside  they  would  scour  the  district  for 
his  assailant.  These  things  terrified  her  as  she 
stumbled  on.  The  rough  stones  in  the  road  cut 
through  her  light  slippers  into  the  flesh.  There 
had  been  no  witness.  Would  the  authorities  take 
her  word  for  what  had  happened?  Suddenly  she 
became  conscious  that  she  was  still  gripping  the 
night  key.  She  looked  at  it;  there  was  blood  upon 
it.  She  dared  not  throw  it  away :  she  felt  it  better 
to  explain  frankly  when  the  time  came.  Perhaps 
the  commissaire  de  police  would  believe  her. 

Just  beyond  her  now,  close  to  the  road,  lay  a 
squatter's  settlement.  From  a  ramshackle 
window  a  light  shone  out.  Therese  slunk  by 


318    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

this  hovel  in  the  shadow  of  a  factory  wall.  As 
she  did  so  for  some  moments  her  heart  again 
seemed  to  stop  beating.  There  were  men  inside 
the  cabin;  she  could  hear  their  oaths  and  laughter. 
The  remaining  hovels  in  the  group  lay  tucked 
away  in  small  truck  gardens.  These  low  shanties, 
patched  with  stray  boards  and  roofed  with  odds 
and  ends  of  the  scrap  heap,  were  notorious  shel- 
ter for  a  colony  of  Apaches,  part  of  a  vicious 
band  smoked  out  of  their  stronghold  on  the 
outskirts  of  Menilmontant,  where  they  had  lived 
the  year  before  in  a  deserted  quarry.  The  girl 
moved  on  as  in  a  nightmare. 

Therese's  high-heeled  slippers  were  now  in 
ribbons;  a  little  farther  on  she  discarded  them, 
then  turned  back,  picked  them  up  and  put  them 
in  her  pocket.  It  was  easier  than  stumbling  in 
them,  and  she  dared  not  leave  them  as  a  clue. 

With  the  fast  approaching  daylight  a  new 
terror  seized  her.  To  be  found  by  the  police  in 
the  pitiful  plight  she  was  in  meant  arrest.  Hei 
thoughts  came  incoherently  now.  Her  head 
seemed  on  fire;  yet  there  was  one  dominating 
longing  above  all  others,  and  that  was  to  reach 


THERESE  319 

the  Infant's  studio.  She  had  regained  the  Rue 
Vaugirard  now,  clenching  her  teeth  to  stifle  the 
pain;  vaguely  she  followed  it  block  after  block 
until  she  reached  the  side  street  in  which  the 
Infant  lived.  Twice  she  hid  in  an  alleyway  to 
avoid  the  passing  police. 

Half  an  hour  later  Therese  found  herself  at 
the  doorway  leading  to  the  Infant's  studio. 

Madame  Martin,  his  sleepy  concierge,  having 
opened  the  front  door  by  pulling  a  cord  sus- 
pended above  her  bed,  had  not  even  questioned 
the  tired,  broken  voice  of  the  intruder.  Therese 
crawled  slowly  up  the  narrow  stairs  leading  to 
the  Infant's  door  and  grasped  the  bell  cord,  then 
fell  unconscious  beside  the  door. 

And  there  he  found  her  —  her  whom  he  really 
loved.  She  dimly  realized  the  warmth  of  his 
strong  arms  as  he  carried  her  and  placed  her  up- 
on his  bed  —  and  Madame  Martin  weeping  - 
and  the  quiet  doctor  giving  that  good  soul  orders ; 
and  for  weeks  she  lay  in  the  Infant's  bed  and  the 
Infant  bunked  on  the  divan  in  Davidge's  studio 
during  the  odd  hours  when  she  fell  asleep  and 
released  his  hand. 


320    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

Almost  any  sunny  afternoon  if  you  chance  to 
cross  the  Luxembourg  Gardens  you  will  see  in 
the  shadow  of  a  statue,  close  to  the  fountain,  a 
laughing  little  girl  playing  hoople  with  an  Eng- 
lish nurse;  and  not  very  far  away  sits  a  slender 
mother  with  her  hair  in  a  bandeau,  reading. 
Sometimes  the  Infant  joins  his  wife  after  work 
and  they  remain  until  the  drum  taps  to  close  the 
gates.  The  Infant  has  been  very  successful. 
He  has  a  new  studio  now  in  the  Rue  des  Dames 
-  a  big  studio  with  a  sunny  apartment  above 
and  plenty  of  room  for  Therese  and  the  baby. 
Davidge  painted  the  frieze  in  madame's  boudoir 
as  a  wedding  present.  Davidge  is  a  good  fellow 
at  heart,  and  since  he  received  the  decoration  of 
the  Legion  d'Honneur  he  is  getting  quite  dig- 
nified and  his  cynicism  is  a  thing  of  the  past. 

In  a  corner  over  the  divan,  in  the  shadow  of 
the  big  skylight  downstairs,  hangs  a  framed  clip- 
ping from  Le  Matin,  dated  five  years  ago : 

The  agents  of  police,  Grenard  and  Ravonneaux,  dis- 
covered at  daylight  yesterday  morning  in  a  ditch  in  a 
deserted  quarter  on  the  outskirts  of  the  Rue  Vaugirard 
one  named  Jean  Martin,  cocker  de  fiacre,  face  gashed, 


THERESE  321 

internal  injuries  and  leg  broken.  Crime?  Or  accident? 
At  the  Hospital  Cochin;  condition  desperate.  Monsieur 
Bouvais,  the  sympathetic  commissaire  de  police,  has  opened 
an  inquiry. 

The  Baby  is  now  engaged.  They  are  to  be  married  in 
June.  It  seems  incredible  —  Sapristi! —  how  the  years 
glide  by.  Davidge  and  I  are  invited  to  the  wedding.  The 
first  thing  he  did  when  he  heard  the  news  was  to  go  over  to  the 
cracked  mirror  over  his  easel  and  gaze  at  himself  for  some 
moments,  while  the  Infant,  her  father  and  myself,  watched 
him.  He  was  wondering  why  he  looked  so  old. — F.  B.  S. 


CHAPTER  TEN 
STRAIGHT-RYE  JONES 


From  my  kitchen  vrindow  in  the  Rue  des  Deux  Amis  in 
Montmartre  I  can  see  up  the  street  as  far  as  the  passage  Henri 
Vittiers.  I  can  also  see  the  Cafe  Jean  Baptist,  where  I  some- 
times dine.  It  was  there  I  first  met  the  hero  of  this  story. 

—  F.  B.  S. 


CHAPTER  TEN 

STRAIGHT-RYE    JONES 

IN  MONTMARTRE  a  man  does  not  become 
notorious  at  a  single  bound;  a  familiar  char- 
acter, a  "type,"  whom  every  one  knows  and 
hails  in  passing,  takes  years  to  produce. 

Straight-rye  Jones  was  one  of  these. 

None  of  us  knew  exactly  where  he  came  from 
in  America.  "Out  West  from  God's  own  coun- 
try," he  used  to  say,  and  swear  with  enthusiasm 
over  the  memory.  He  possessed  a  strength  and 
a  constitution  that  were  amazing.  There  was 
in  his  back,  his  arms,  his  deep  chest,  his  broad 

325 


326    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

shoulders,  and  his  legs,  the  strength  of  a  young 
bull,  and  in  his  heart  lay  his  ever-ready  good 
nature.  His  eyes  were  blue  and  generally  blood- 
shot; his  hair  was  a  tawny,  dull  blond,  and  so 
seldom  cut  that  it  fell  below  the  collar  of  his  coat. 
Hatless,  it  blew  wild  as  hemp  in  the  wind.  In 
the  cafe,  he  brushed  it  back  with  his  hand.  His 
shapeless  features,  clean-shaven  at  intervals,  the 
broad  forehead,  the  flat  nose,  and  the  bulldog 
jaw  were  freckled  like  his  big,  coarse  hands.  His 
voice  had  a  certain  huskiness  about  it,  and  was 
pitched  low  and  easy,  like  his  laugh.  He  wore 
the  wide  corduroy  trousers  of  the  Parisian  work- 
man, and  in  winter  wooden  sabots  and  a  cowboy 
hat. 

When  he  lapsed  from  the  language  of  Western 
America  into  the  argot  of  Montmartre,  he  still 
retained  his  favourite  exclamations  from  Mon- 
tana. These  gave  a  certain  ginger  to  his  raw 
French. 

His  days  he  spent  in  a  small  cafe  tucked  under 
the  "Hotel  of  the  Abyssinians  and  Madame  de 
Pompadour  Reunited,"  a  stale  cafe,  always  smell- 
ing of  yesterday,  and  in  which  the  most  conspic- 


STRAIGHT-RYE  JONES  327 

uous  touch  of  cleanliness  was  the  neatly  raked 
strip  of  sand  next  to  the  worn  billiard  table. 

His  nights  he  passed  in  bars  about  the  markets 
where  any  one  but  Straight-rye  Jones  would 
have  had  a  knife  driven  into  his  back  in  less  than 
a  week.  It  was  his  good-natured  grin,  his  reck- 
lessness, and  his  colossal  strength  that  saved 
him,  and  gave  him  a  safe  passport  in  and  out  of 
these  dives  about  the  "Halles"  frequented  by 
Apaches,  by  criminals,  and  their  still  more  dan- 
gerous sweethearts. 

They  welcomed  Straight-rye  Jones  among 
them  as  they  would  have  welcomed  one  of  their 
own.  Often  when  a  quick  fight  occurred  they 
were  glad  he  was  there.  He  was  a  whirlwind  in 
a  fight,  drunk  or  sober,  and  he  was  never  cold 
sober,  save  at  short  intervals  during  the  day. 
He  used  to  come  back  to  the  cafe  under  the 
"Abyssinians  and  Madame  de  Pompadour 
Reunited,"  and  tell  us  about  the  last  "scrap." 

"I  was  settin'  talkin*  to  a  girl,"  he  would 
drawl,  with  a  grin,  "and  in  come  a  couple  of 
them  butchers  from  La  Villette." 

And  then  would  follow  the  exclamations  from 


328    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

Montana,  whose  elimination  is  one  of  the  diffi- 
culties in  writing  this  story,  as  Straight-rye 
Jones's  vocabulary  without  them  is  limited, 
though  I  never  heard  him  swear  before  a  lady  or 
a  child.  And  once,  when  he  was  blind  drunk, 
he  had  sense  enough  to  hide  behind  a  tree  when 
the  two  children  of  Delacour  passed. 

No  one  ever  spoke  ill  of  Straight-rye  Jones. 

I  have  known  him  to  sober  up  for  three  days 
in  order  to  take  these  two  small  children  of 
Delacour's  to  the  shady  square  which  lies  be- 
tween the  Rue  Turgot  and  the  Boulevard  Clichy. 
He  had  a  great  fondness  for  children,  and  they 
were  safe  with  him. 

Had  you  chanced  to  pass  now  and  then  on 
some  sunny  spring  afternoon,  you  might  have 
seen  him  sitting  on  one  of  the  public  benches  - 
his  sombrero  pushed  back  on  his  head  —  a  child 
on  each  faded  corduroy  knee,  telling  them  stories. 
The  story  about  the  phantom  wolf  the  "Injuns" 
trapped,  for  the  little  boy;  and  for  the  little  girl, 
the  story  of  the  fairy  who  lived  in  the  trunk  of 
the  tree,  and  gave  every  little  girl  everything 
she  asked  for. 


STRAIGHT-RYE  JONES  329 

"She  was  a  good  un,"  he'd  laugh  low  and  ex- 
plain. "She  wa'n't  never  known  to  refuse 
candies  an'  them  little  rockin'-hosses  —  an'  — 
an'  them  stare-eyed  dolls  what  kin  say  *  popper' 
and  'mommer'  -maybe  if  youse  was  to  hev 
asked  her  fer  —  less  see  —  one  er  them  little  — 
them  little  —  kitchuns.  Pshaw !  I'd  er  oughter 
thought  er  that,  hedn't  I?  One  er  them  little 
kitchuns,  whar  yer  kin  cook  and  weigh  and  shut 
the  door  of  the  stove  tight.  Waal,  she  wa'n't 
never  known  to  refuse." 

And  he'd  laugh  that  low,  easy  laugh  of  Mon- 
tana that  reminds  you  of  the  cool  twilight,  free- 
dom, and  a  fresh  horse.  Yes,  Straight-rye  Jones 
was  fond  of  children. 

And  after  such  an  afternoon  with  Delacour's, 
which  happened  only  once  in  a  while,  for  he  had 
to  prepare  for  it  and  tell  Delacour  in  advance, 
he'd  take  the  little  boy  and  the  little  girl  back  to 
Delacour's  studio,  from  which  their  mamma  had 
"gone." 

Then  Straight-rye  Jones  would  shamble  slowly 
back  to  the  stale  cafe  beneath  Madame  de  Pom- 
padour and  the  ancient  tribes  reunited,  where 


330     THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

we  painters  met  before  dinner  for  our  aperitif  - 
his  eyes  scanning  in  a  dream  the  edge  of  the 
gutter,  until  it  led  him  half  consciously  to  the 
door,  and  he  turned  in  to  drink. 

He  preferred  the  corner  table  in  the  alcove, 
although  he  sometimes  sat  at  a  smaller  one 
provided  with  a  single  chair  next  to  the  billiard 
table  when  he  was  broke. 

;'You  ain't  never  knowed  what  it  is  to  love," 
he  once  said  to  me.  :'You  ain't  never  had  no 
sweetheart  what  you  really  loved,  and  if  you 
had  er  had  —  why,  we  was  goin'  to  be  married  - 
and  she  throwed  you  down?  Well!  You  ain't 
never  loved;  and  if  you  had  er  loved  you'd  er 
been  down  and  out  like  me.  Look  at  me!  " 

His  voice  grew  thick,  and  he  stared  at  his 
half-empty  glass  of  sour  straight  rye,  and  ran 
his  freckled  hand  through  his  long,  dull  hair 
wearily,  pushing  it  back  from  his  eyes. 

"  I  ain't  worth  nothin'  —  nothin'l "  He  began 
to  cry  through  nervous  depression,  his  big  hands 
in  a  tremble.  "No,"  he  added  slowly,  "you 
ain't  never  truly  loved." 

And  he  drained  his  glass  with  a  gulp,  shivered, 


STRAIGHT-RYE  JONES  331 

shoved  the  empty  glass  from  him,  and  felt  in  his 
trousers  pocket  to  see  if  he  still  had  enough  to 
pay  for  his  next  and  mine,  which  he  insisted  on, 
backed  up  by  the  persuasion  of  Montana. 

No  one  inquired  where  he  lived,  and,  since  he 
never  mentioned  his  domicile,  we  were  too  dis- 
creet to  ask,  for  he  disappeared  often  for  days 
and  weeks,  although  it  was  certain  that  at  one 
time  he  lived  at  the  butt  end  of  an  alley  off  the 
Boulevard  Clichy,  in  a  two-story  box  provided 
with  a  pair  of  stairs,  and  whose  beckoning  light 
over  the  entrance  at  night  spelled  "Hotel."  It 
was  quite  a  lively  alley,  and  as  sad  as  a  sewer;  a 
sort  of  sinister  ravine  off  the  gay  highway  for 
lost  souls  to  wait  in.  There  are  such  glimpses  of 
purgatory  on  earth. 

It  was  safer  to  keep  to  the  middle  of  this  alley, 
although  sometimes  Straight-rye  Jones  stumbled 
and  lurched  along  its  narrow  sidewalk  in  the 
dark,  and  reached  his  domicile  alive.  It  must, 
however,  be  said  that  it  had  its  note  of  respect- 
ability —  a  stable  for  honest  fiacre  horses  nearly 
opposite  the  "Hotel." 

He  came  to  the  cafe  steadily  after  these  sudden 


332    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

disappearances, wedged  in  the  corner  alcove  next 
to  the  worn  billiard  table;  and  to-day  he  sat  talk- 
ing to  a  stranger  —  a  tall,  slim  girl,  with  the  skin 
of  a  Creole,  though  there  was  not  a  drop  of 
French  blood  in  her  veins,  and  whose  whole  life 
was  as  false  as  the  pendant  pearls  in  her  ears. 
Her  fingers  were  tapering  and  long  —  a  fact 
which  Besagon,  the  painter,  whose  satire  is 
caustic,  explained  were  given  her  for  a  purpose, 
since  she  was  a  born  thief. 

"Just  as  nature  provides  the  ape,"  continued 
Besagon,  "with  the  ability  to  grasp  with  the 
thumb  and  forefinger." 

Besagon  is  quite  a  zoologist. 

She  inveigled  herself  into  our  midst  with  cat- 
like ingenuity,  and  with  the  same  feline  intel- 
ligence she  chose  the  corner  in  the  alcove  as  her 
own,  and  refused  to  budge;  and  for  two  days  be- 
came a  sensation  with  the  story  of  her  life  —  a 
spy  in  the  Japanese  war,  special  correspondent 
to  a  New  York  daily,  and  now  broke,  with  Mont- 
martre  as  her  home  and  her  jewels  in  the  Mont 
De  Piete. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  only  Straight-rye  Jones 


STRAIGHT-RYE  JONES  333 

listened  to  her,  and  they  drank  hard  together, 
for  she  was  too  timid  to  become  a  model,  owing 
to  her  father  being  a  judge  of  the  supreme  court 
and  her  sister-in-law  an  English  duchess.  But 
she  could  "write,"  she  said,  "poetry,"  and  "if 
she  could  only  write  her  life  —  no,  honest  — 
listen,  dearie." 

And  here  she  touched  me  for  a  bond  of  sym- 
pathy, but  I  bit  not,  for  she  was  more  dangerous 
than  a  bottle  of  strychnine. 

"I'm  a  gypsy,"  she  confessed  at  last,  with  a 
sob,  "and  I'm  sorry  I've  lied  to  you  boys." 

Whereat  Straight-rye  Jones  laid  a  heavy  paw 
gently  on  her  cold-creamed  neck. 

"You're  a  slick  kid,"  said  he,  "and  too  tall 
for  your  age." 

He  rolled  her  a  fresh  cigarette,  for  she  smoked 
furiously  whenever  it  was  possible,  and  borrowed 
tobacco  right  and  left  —  this  girl  whom  we  called 
"La  Tzigane,"  on  account  of  her  "gypsy"  blood. 

The  cafe  beneath  the  hotel  of  the  savage  tribes 
and  the  grande  dame  reunited  prospered  in  its 
own  stale  way  on  bad  liquor  and  popularity;  but 
Straight-rye  Jones  under  La  Tzigane's  evil  eye 


334    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

became  hopeless.  There  were  days  when  he 
begged  for  poison.  There  were  days  and  nights 
when  he  lay  in  the  Hospital  Bichat  on  the  verge 
of  delirium  tremens.  There  were  days  when  he 
had  them,  and  lay  strapped  to  a  cot;  yet  none  of 
these  crises  seemed  to  hurt  him  to  an  apparent 
extent. 

During  these  forced  absences  La  Tzigane  sat 
alone.  Now  and  then  she  went  out  to  the  hos- 
pital to  see  him,  and  to  borrow. 

It  was  the  fourth  day  after  he  returned  to  the 
cafe  —  sober,  with  a  clear  eye  and  a  sane  brain, 
and  a  firm  decision  to  leave  drink  alone  —  that 
she  insisted  on  his  drinking  her  health. 

In  a  week  he  was  back  again  at  Bichat;  and 
when  again  he  returned,  he  forgave  La  Tzigane, 
as  he  forgave  everybody.  He,  like  the  good  fairy 
in  the  tree,  "wa'n't  never  known  to  refuse." 

It  was  May.  The  air  was  soft  with  a  kindly 
warmth.  Straight-rye  Jones  sat  on  a  bench 
along  the  Boulevard  Clichy,  basking  in  the  good 
sunshine.  It  was  nearly  noon,  and  the  sordid 
boulevard  was  alive  with  its  morning  marketing 


STRAIGHT-RYE  JONES  335 

from  the  pushcarts,  and  noisy  with  their  owners 
crying  their  wares.  From  where  he  sat  he  could 
glance  up  the  steep  Rue  Lepic,  alive  with  market 
carts  and  choked  with  a  slowly  moving  human 
stream  of  women  in  wrappers  —  their  dyed  hair 
in  pigtails  or  curl  papers  —  women  who  had 
gone  to  bed  with  the  dawn,  and  were  up  to  bar- 
gain for  a  cabbage  or  half  a  rabbit. 

Along  the  Boulevard  Clichy  the  debris  and 
filth  of  the  night  were  being  swept  out  of  the  all- 
night  supper  places  and  the  cabarets  —  stale, 
black  holes,  that  only  a  few  hours  before  had  been 
glittering  in  electricity  and  alive  with  the  senti- 
mental waltz  and  the  popping  cork. 

In  broad  daylight,  after  its  feverish,  wide-open 
nights,  during  which  its  worn  paint  and  tinsel 
are  disguised  by  light  and  life,  Montmartre 
shows  its  cheap  carcass;  its  illusion  is  laid  bare. 
It  is  as  if  the  lid  of  a  dance  hall  was  lifted,  the  sun- 
light let  in;  and  one  looked  down  upon  the  flimsy 
scenery  and  the  rubbish  and  dust  beneath. 

He  could  see,  too,  from  where  he  sat,  the  red 
windmill  of  the  Moulin  Rouge  —  still  in  day- 
light, for  it  only  grinds  at  night.  It,  too,  was 


336    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

being  swept  out;  and  an  electrician  in  a  pair  of 
blue  overalls  was  up  on  a  ladder  mending  its 
coloured  lights. 

On  the  terrace  of  the  cafes  lounged  pale,  collar- 
less  gentlemen,  also  forced  temporarily  out  of  bed 
for  an  early  absinthe.  They  were,  for  the  most 
part,  idle  criminals  whom  one  does  not  awk- 
wardly jostle  in  a  crowd  without  politely  begging 
their  pardon.  They  are  unusually  polite  under 
these  circumstances.  There  is  nothing  that 
touches  the  pride  of  a  thief  more  than  to  be 
treated  like  a  gentleman. 

Straight-rye  Jones  saw  nothing  of  these  things 
-  they  were  too  familiar  to  him.  He  sat  hat- 
less,  his  chjn  in  his  hands,  absorbed  in  thought, 
gazing  absently  at  a  sparrow  bolder  than  its 
mates  who  had  hopped  near  him. 

"  Come  here,  you  durned,  cunnin'  little  cuss," 
he  drawled  softly;  and  he  felt  in  his  pockets  for 
the  remnant  of  his  breakfast,  a  stale  roll.  "  Thar ! 
I  ain't  er  goin'  to  hurt  ye." 

He  crushed  the  roll  against  the  bench  with  his 
hand.  The  bird  fluttered  away  in  fright  —  that 
panic  which  is  the  forerunner  of  confidence  - 


STRAIGHT-RYE  JONES  387 

wheeled  in  the  air,  and  fluttered  down  to  his  feet, 
to  fill  himself  well  with  the  crumbs. 

For  a  long  while  Straight-rye  Jones  sat  im- 
movable, thinking.  A  temperament  such  as  his 
is  capable  of  extremes.  Often  the  greatest 
strength  is  born  of  the  greatest  weakness.  It  is 
the  even  temperament  which  is  so  often  capable 
of  nothing. 

Slowly  an  idea  developed  in  his  brain  —  an 
idea  that  had  occurred  to  him  before,  but  which 
to  him  appeared  so  vast  and  difficult  that  its 
development  seemed  hopeless.  The  warm  sun- 
shine stimulated  him.  It  possessed,  this  sunny 
noon,  the  quieting  stimulant  of  a  drink.  It  was 
a  new  sensation  to  Straight-rye  Jones.  The  idea 
developed  itself  in  the  clear  sunlight  into  a  vast 
plan  of  absorbing  importance. 

"I'm  a-goin'  to  move,"  he  muttered  to  him- 
self, "out  whar  the  air  is  fresher.  Yes,  I  got  to. 
It  ain't  no  use  in  trying  it  here.  I'd  give  in  afore 
a  week.  It's  too  near  the  old  game." 

He  began  to  think  seriously  of  a  place  called 
the  Hornet's  Nest,  out  near  the  slaughter-houses, 
close  to  the  fortifications,  where  rent  was  cheap. 


338    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

He  knew  some  butchers  and  some  painters  who 
lived  out  there.  It  was  a  long  tramp  from  the 
heart  of  Montmartre.  This  in  itself  he  con- 
sidered a  help.  He  was  like  a  drowning  man 
grasping  at  a  straw,  yet  with  a  certain  half- 
delirious  confidence  that  he  could  swim.  It  does 
not  take  long  for  a  man  in  this  condition  to  make 
up  his  mind. 

He  thought,  too,  of  the  two  children  of  Dela- 
cour's,  and  vaguely  of  La  Tzigane. 

Then  slowly  he  extracted  from  an  inside  pocket 
a  small  packet  enveloped  in  three  thicknesses  of 
newspaper  and  tightly  bound  with  a  string.  Al- 
though it  was  his  habit  to  feel  often  whether  it 
was  safe,  he  had  not  examined  it  for  a  long  while. 
He  fumbled  at  the  knots,  bit  the  string  through 
twice  with  his  corn-like  teeth,  and  opened  the 
wrapper  carefully.  It  contained  six  letters  still 
in  their  envelopes.  From  the  fifth  he  drew  a 
faded  kodak. 

It  was  that  of  a  young  girl  with  fair  hair,  in  a 
short  riding  skirt.  She  was  standing  in  the  wind 
at  the  corner  of  a  ranch  house.  The  only  thing 
distinguishable  in  her  features  were  her  dimpled 


STRAIGHT-RYE  JONES  339 

chin  and  her  smile.  The  rest  was  blotted  in  the 
deep  shadow  of  the  intense  sunlight  of  Montana. 

For  some  moments  he  held  the  faded  kodak 
in  the  hollow  of  his  hand,  his  eyes  searching  the 
shadow  of  her  face.  The  ranch  house  became  a 
blur.  A  big  tear  rolled,  dropped,  and  spattered 
between  it  and  the  bottom  of  the  short  skirt. 

Straight-rye  Jones  closed  his  eyes. 

"I'm  a-goin'  to  try,  Mazie,"  he  prayed.  "So 
help  me  God,  Mazie,  I'm  a-goin'  to  try.  Yer  said 
yer'd  marry  me  if  I  could  only  keep  straight. 
Yer  said  yer'd  marry  me,"  he  kept  repeating  to 
himself,  "an'  I'm  a-goin'  to  try." 

A  woman  with  the  rouge  fresh  on  her  lips,  who 
had  been  marketing  without  it  in  the  morning 
up  the  Rue  Lepic,  passed  him,  and  smiled,  for 
she  knew  him  —  that  discreet  smile  of  imbecilic 
disdain  with  which  her  kind  favour  the  intimate 
stranger. 

Spasmodically  Straight-rye  Jones  clutched  the 
packet  of  letters,  badly  creasing  the  kodak.  He 
did  not  know  why  he  did  this;  but,  after  all,  it 
was  only  natural,  like  many  gestures  that  our 
brain  thanks  our  hands  for  having  done,  and 


340    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

which  the  brain  appears  not  to  have  primarily 
directed. 

The  sparrow  flew  back,  and  Straight-rye  Jones 
was  glad  to  see  it,  for  he  was  smiling  now,  and 
telling  it  a  promise.  He  had  to  tell  it  to  some- 
body, you  see,  who  was  respectable. 

Having  made  his  decision,  Straight-rye  Jones 
changed  his  domicile  from  the  alley  to  the  Hor- 
net's Nest.  Nothing  could  be  stranger  or  more 
incongruous  in  contrast  than  this  wooden  build- 
ing of  studios,  which  stood  isolated  in  one  of  the 
vacant  lots  opposite  the  vast  entrance  yards  of 
the  government's  slaughter  houses.  It  indeed 
resembled  somewhat  a  hornet's  nest,  since  it  was 
round,  and  gray,  and  had  a  small  door  as  its 
single  entrance  and  exit  for  the  swarm  of  three- 
score of  painters  and  bohemians,  and  their  sweet- 
hearts, who  found  a  refuge  within,  and  who  were 
hand-in-hand  friends  with  the  butchers  opposite. 
Meat,  therefore,  was  the  easier  to  obtain. 

The  whole  atmosphere  of  this  strange  settle- 
ment was  savage  enough.  It  was  as  if  the 
Temple  of  the  Knife  and  Certain  Death,  whose 


STRAIGHT-RYE  JONES  341 

floors,  corridors,  and  gutters  were  continually 
flushed  with  blood,  had  taken  the  stranded  little 
Temple  of  Art  under  its  wing. 

It  is  said  that  the  Hornet's  Nest  once  figured 
in  the  exhibition  of  1900.  However  this  may  be, 
its  aspect  was  singular.  It  was  as  round  as  a 
cake.  It  might  easily  have  served  as  a  round- 
house for  locomotives,  an  aquarium,  or  a  one- 
ring  circus,  had  not  its  second-hand  shell  been 
destined  to  contain  as  many  studios  as  could  be 
gotten  out  of  its  two  floors ;  the  top  one  being  the 
most  popular,  since  its  red-tiled  floor,  upon  which 
the  circle  of  studio  doors  opened,  was  well  lighted 
by  a  skylight,  broiling  hot  in  summer  and  a  sieve 
for  the  wind  and  snow  in  winter.  The  ground 
floor  beneath  was  dark,  damp,  and  as  gloomy  as  a 
cellar. 

Both  floors  were  provided  in  the  centre  with  a 
brass  water  spigot.  The  water  was  free,  but 
not  popular. 

In  the  matter  of  studios,  the  cake  had  been  cut 
into  forty  thin  slices,  each  segment  containing  a 
small  skylight,  and  renting  for  the  modest  sum  of 
fifty  francs  for  three  months. 


342    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  crowd  who  lived 
there  were  poor  —  desperately  poor.  Barely 
five  in  the  lot  spoke  the  same  language,  though 
their  sweethearts  were  mostly  French.  The 
Hornet's  Nest  had  gathered  beneath  its  roof 
Poles,  Swedes,  and  Spaniards;  Germans,  Greeks, 
and  Russians ;  the  only  American  being  Straight- 
rye  Jones;  and  the  only  Frenchman,  a  dreamer 
named  Danet,  who  wrote  verses  when  he  was 
hungriest,  and  wore  to  the  salon  a  silk  hat,  a 
sticky,  multicoloured  sweater  of  uncured  Nor- 
wegian sheep's  wool,  a  frock  coat,  tennis  shoes, 
and  the  paint-stained  wedding  trousers  of  his 
room-mate. 

It  was  in  this  place,  then,  that  Straight-rye 
Jones  had  chosen  to  keep  from  drink.  The  wiry, 
agile,  fair-skinned  butchers  opposite  were  too 
busy  with  killing  to  drink  much,  the  inmates  of 
the  Hornet's  Nest  too  poor.  Coal  in  winter, 
when  they  often  chipped  in  and  herded  together 
in  a  studio,  and  food  all  the  year  round,  were  in 
themselves  difficult  enough  to  obtain,  since  no 
one  worked  unless  driven  to  it  from  privation. 

La  Tzigane  was  not  long  in  following  Straight- 


STRAIGHT-RYE  JONES  843 

rye  Jones.  She,  too,  rented  a  studio  in  the  Hor- 
net's Nest.  She  cared  nothing  for  Straight-rye 
Jones,  but  she  wanted  a  watchdog  in  case  of  need, 
and  some  one  to  borrow  from  in  idle  necessity. 

Straight-rye  Jones  lent  her  a  cot  bed,  two  bad 
pictures,  a  water  pitcher,  and  thirteen  francs; 
and  she  stole  the  rest  from  him  by  ingenious 
degrees,  objects  from  his  meagre  store  of  posses- 
sions that  she  needed. 

Straight-rye  Jones  never  let  her  know  he  knew. 
He  was  growing  happier  daily.  The  nights  when 
he  walked  the  floor  were  beginning  to  grow 
shorter;  yet  what  he  passed  through  during  ten 
days  after  his  decision  on  the  bench  had  been  far 
worse  than  he  had  experienced  in  the  hospital. 

Not  since  that  morning  in  the  hospital  had  he 
taken  a  drink. 

"It's  hell  at  first,"  was  his  only  remark. 

Though  La  Tzigane's  door  was  close  to  his 
own  on  the  ground  floor,  and  she  spent  most 
of  her  time  loafing  in  his  studio,  Straight-rye 
Jones  still  stuck  to  milk,  which  he  practically 
lived  on.  He  would  sit  for  hours  watching  an- 
other fellow  paint — silent,  amused  as  a  child,  his 


344    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

elbows  on  his  knees;  and,  though  he  was  hail- 
fellow-well-met  with  the  crowd  in  the  Hornet's 
Nest,  he  was  welcomed  even  more  heartily  by 
the  butchers. 

Whenever  he  strolled  into  the  abattoir  a  shout 
would  go  up,  for  they  all  knew  him. 

"  Eh  v&ila!  Stret  Reel "  shouted  the  butchers ; 
and  the  girls  working  with  them  in  the  pens 
shouted  "Bonjour"  to  him,  for  these  butchers 
will  not  work  without  this  girl  helper,  whom  they 
flirt  with  and  chaff,  and  who  is  never  much  over 
eighteen,  well  built,  chosen  for  her  good  looks, 
dressed  in  a  short  skirt,  thick,  dark-blue  stock- 
ings, and  sabots  —  bare-armed,  bare-necked; 
and  always  a  ribbon,  pink  or  blue,  in  a  tiny  bow 
tied  in  her  neatly  dressed  hair. 

It  is  she  who  is  the  soubrette  in  the  daily 
killing.  Straight-rye  Jones  knew  them  all. 
One  —  Jacqueline  —  fell  in  love  with  him  until 
her  own  sweetheart  knifed  her;  another,  a  small 
brunette  with  hair  as  black  and  glossy  as  a  Jap- 
anese, knitted  him  a  muffler.  But  neither 
tempted  him  to  drink.  I  believe  the  man  who  had 
tempted  him  would  have  been  knifed  for  his  pains. 


STRAIGHT-RYE  JONES  345 

Over  his  studio  cot  —  a  poorer  one  than  he 
had  lent  La  Tzigane  —  hung  a  faded  kodak.  He 
had  fashioned  for  it  a  little  wooden  frame.  No 
one  ever  mentioned  this  photograph  save  La 
Tzigane.  One  afternoon,  a  week  after  he  hung  it 
up,  La  Tzigane  mentioned  it.  She  made  several 
turns  in  the  studio,  glancing  at  it  askance  out 
of  her  snake-like  eyes. 

Finally  her  curiosity  got  the  better  of  her. 

"Who  is  that  woman  there?"  she  inquired. 

Then  she  shut  her  red  mouth  tight  and  backed 
slowly  away  from  its  owner.  Straight-rye  Jones 
had  not  uttered  a  word  in  reply.  He  simply  held 
the  door  open  for  her,  and  La  Tzigane  backed 
slowly  out  of  it,  gazing  at  his  eyes,  in  which  there 
lurked  something  akin  to  murder. 

A  year  passed,  and  again  Straight-rye  Jones 
disappeared.  Three  years,  and  no  one  saw  him. 
Some  said  he  had  gone  to  America.  This  infor- 
mation was,  however,  vague. 

One  afternoon  I  turned  the  corner  of  the  Rue 
Henri  Monnier.  To  my  amazement,  he  stood 
before  me. 


346    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"For  gosh  sake!"  he  drawled.  You  see,  his 
language  had  grown  milder. 

The  very  little  girl  he  held  by  the  hand  I  did 
not  recognize  as  Delacour's.  Straight-rye  Jones 
placed  her  very  small  hand  in  mine,  for  she  was 
shy. 

!< Yours?"  I  stammered. 

"Yes,"  he  drawled,  his  whole  face  alight. 
"Tell  what  father's  goin'  to  get  yer?"  But  she 
pressed  her  fair  little  head  against  her  father's 
coat.  "One  er  them  little"  — he  coaxed,  and 
bent  to  reassure  her  —  "one  er  them  little - 
them  little  - 

"  Rockin'-hor-thiz,"  lisped  the  little  girl. 

There  flashed  across  my  mind  the  kodak  from 
Montana  —  and  I  was  right- 

La  Tzigane,  after  Straight-rye  Jones's  disappearance, 
endeavoured  to  inveigle  into  her  heart  a  butcher  who  had  both 
meat  and  money.  This  proved  to  be  a  dangerous  game.  The 
last  I  heard  of  her  she  was  in  the  hospital  with  a  knife 
wound  in  her  back  —  stabbed  by  the  butcher's  sweetheart. 

—  F.B.  S. 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

"THE  ARRANGEMENT  OF  MONSIEUR 
DE  COURCELLES" 


We  always  go  to  the  salon,  no  matter  how  poor  we  are,  or 
how  poor  it  is.  Besagon  and  Vautrin  had  promised  to  meet 
me  there  and  neither  of  them  had  turned  up.  I  was  glad 
afterward  they  never  did  turn  up,  for  otherwise  this  story 
could  have  never  been  written.  —  F.  B.  S. 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

THE  ARRANGEMENT  OF  MONSIEUR  DE  COUR- 
CELLES  " 


rFIHE  autumn  salon  had  opened.  Seen  from 
•••  the  gallery  where  Hollister  and  I  stood,  hah* 
of  artistic  and  fashionable  Paris  this  afternoon 
swarmed  like  black  ants  in  and  out  among  the 
acres  of  sculpture  under  the  mammoth  glass  roof 
of  the  Grand  Palais. 

Antlike,  the  throng  moved  ceaselessly  —  over- 
running the  broad  stairways,  sweeping  up  to 
rooms  after  rooms  of  good  and  bad  pictures,  or 
edged  along  their  adjoining  corridors  choked 


349 


350    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

with  the  annual  miscellany  of  drawings,  jewellery, 
and  bronze. 

Upon  the  spacious  floor,  lean,  long-haired 
painters,  their  frock  coats  brushed  up  for  the 
occasion,  chatted  with  fat,  well-fed  critics.  Here 
too,  had  come  the  sculptor  and  his  model,  the 
girl  in  a  pre-Raphaelite  gown  of  her  own  inven- 
tion, her  black  hair  worn  in  a  bandeau  half  hiding 
her  tiny  shells  of  ears. 

Jack  and  I  were  looking  at  a  bust  by  Rodin 
when  we  ran  across  the  young  painter,  Paul 
Desmoulins,  a  tall  black-eyed  fellow  of  thirty,  im- 
maculate in  a  white  silk  stock  and  a  black  velvet 
waistcoat.  With  him  was  a  woman,  slender 
even  in  her  furs,  with  a  complexion  like  a  rose  of 
Nice. 

Whether  it  was  the  satin  sheen  of  her  golden 
hair,  which  brought  the  passing  gaze  of  hundreds 
upon  her  as  she  passed,  the  pearly  whiteness  of 
her  teeth,  her  lithe  grace  as  she  moved,  or  the 
alert,  fearless  look  in  her  blue  eyes,  I  do  not 
know.  There  was  something  in  her  whole  per- 
sonality which  attracted  and  dominated. 

Desmoulins  grasped  Hollister's  hand  heartily. 


MONSIEUR  DE  COURCELLES  351 

"Well,  well!"  he  cried.  "How  are  you,  my 
boy?"  and  with  a  bow  he  courteously  presented 
Mademoiselle  Coralie  de  Favrier. 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  mademoiselle,  with  a  frank 
smile,  and  she  lapsed  into  her  broken  English. 

"So  it  iz  zat  I  have  zee  pleasure  of  meeting 
you,  Monsieur  Holleestaire,"  and  she  turned  to 
me.  "You  see,  I  know  already  since  long  time 
your  friend  —  ah,  yes!  —  I  see  somezing  in 
London  by  him  in  zee  Gallerie  Nationale." 

"Oh,  my  lion,"  laughed  Jack,  "I'm  afraid  its 
pretty  bad." 

"Notzing  of  zee  kind,  Monsieur.  It  was  not 
bad  —  only  it  is  very  difficult  to  know  a  lion  — 
zee  leetle  characteristics " 

"You  may  not  be  aware,"  interrupted  Des- 
moulins  in  French,  "that  Mademoiselle  de  Fav- 
rier is  speaking  as  a  connoisseur." 

"Ah!  my  friend!  you  must  not  flatter  me  so," 
replied  the  girl,  laying  her  firm  gloved  hand  on 
the  arm  of  her  escort.  "Non!  It  is  not  zat  I 
am  an  artiste,  but  you  see  I  have  many  lion  my- 
self." 

"In  sculpture,  Mademoiselle?"  ventured  I. 


352    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"No,  Monsieur,  zat  would  be  easier.  Mine 
are  in  zee  cages.'*  As  she  said  it  her  blue  eyes 
half  closed  with  a  gaze  in  them  as  steady  as 
steel. 

"Of  course  you  do  not  know,"  she  resumed 
quietly-  "you  have  nevaire  seen  me?  Ah! 
you  artistes  go  so  leetle  to  zee  theatre.  But," 
she  added,  seriously,  "you  shall  come  both  of 
you,  I  am  going  to  send  you  a  box,  zen  you  shall 
see  my  lions.  I  am  at  zee  Folies  Bergeres  —  and 
zis  bad  boy,"  she  said,  archly  turning  to  Des- 
moulins,  "who  always  make  me  zee  compliment, 
he  shall  come  too." 

We  presented  her  with  our  grateful  thanks  and 
our  cards.  The  latter  she  tucked  safely  within  a 
hidden  pocket  of  her  muff. 

Hollister's  eyes  brightened. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  said  he,  "yes»  it  was  last 
year,"  and  with  a  quick  gesture  he  exclaimed: 
"Why,  of  course  I  have  seen  you,  Mademoiselle. 
You  were  then  at  the  Olympia.  You  were  train- 
ing a  den  of  leopards.  I  shall  never  forget  it. 
They  were  superb." 

"  And  myself  a  little  fool,"  she  added.  "  Really, 


MONSIEUR  DE  COURCELLES  353 

I  shall  nevaire,  nevaire  do  zat  again.     I  love  life 
too  much." 

"  Come,  show  us  your  new  group,"  pleaded 
Desmoulins.  "Mademoiselle  has  been  search- 
ing the  catalogue  for  it  —  where  have  they  put 
it,  Hollister?" 

"Oh!  they've  stuck  it  over  there  in  the  corner 
near  the  stairs,"  said  Jack,  modestly.  "Really, 
I  haven't  the  heart  to  show  it  to  mademoiselle. 
You  see,  if  it  were  a  group  of  nymphs  or  peas- 
ants or  anything  else  I  wouldn't  mind  - 
but  lions!  I'm  afraid  my  'Lion  and  Mate'  is  a 
failure." 

"But,  Monsieur!"  exclaimed  mademoiselle. 
"  It  is  for  zat  I  come !  Ah !  you  artistes  are  impos- 
sible. Truly.  Come,  I  insist."  She  stretched 
forth  her  hand  to  him. 

"It  is  so  bad,"  pleaded  Jack. 

"Nonsenze!"  laughed  Coralie  de  Favrier,  and 
Jack  led  the  way. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said  abruptly.  "I  should 
be  only  too  grateful  for  your  criticism,  honest 
critics  are  so  rare." 

"  Bah !     Zey  are  so  stupide ! "  returned  Coralie. 


354    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"It  is  so  vary,  vary  easy  to  criticize,  so  difficult 
to  create,  isn't  it?" 

As  she  looked  up  at  Hollister,  he  was  conscious 
of  the  courage  in  those  blue  eyes,  and  if  there  was 
anything  Jack  admired  in  a  woman  it  was  cour- 
age. Slender  and  graceful  as  she  was,  there  was 
a  sense  of  physical  strength  about  that  finely 
trained  body  of  hers,  which  fascinated  him,  a 
woman  who  could  risk  her  life  as  she  had  in  that 
den  of  leopards  and  who  even  now  was  in  daily 
peril,  who  possessed  a  courage,  a  quick  wit,  pres- 
ence of  mind  and  an  indomitable  will.  And  yet, 
after  all,  Coralie  was  feminine.  You  would  never 
have  guessed  this  pretty  woman  was  a  lion  tamer. 

Coralie  studied  Jack's  "Lion  and  Mate"  care- 
fully, her  keen  glance  running  along  the  muscles 
of  the  lion's  back  who,  with  muzzle  to  the  ground, 
was  scenting  a  fresh  trail.  Then  she  began  to 
scrutinize  the  lioness  crouched  beside  her  mate. 

"Ah,  yes!  zat  is  better-  '  she  cried  with 
enthusiasm.  "Zat  is  much  better.  Her  hind- 
quarters you  make  a  leetle  too  thin,  but,  par- 
bleu!  zee  weight  is  zere.  It  is  zee  lion  which  has 
fault.  You  make  him  smell  a  fresh  trail,  eh? 


MONSIEUR  DE  COURCELLES  355 

He  going  to  kill  for  his  sweetheart,  eh?  Well, 
zen  his  ears  would  lie  flatter  to  his  skull." 

"By  George,  I  knew  it,"  exclaimed  Jack  to 
me.  "That  was  the  thing  I  worried  over  for 
weeks.  The  impression  of  scent." 

"It  is  so  discouraging  working  from  rapid 
memorandums  of  that  lazy  overfed  lot  of  lions 
at  the  Jardin  des  Plantes,"  explained  Hollister. 

"Of  course,  of  course,  I  understand,"  replied 
Coralie,  "but  you  must  not  go  zere,  my  friend; 
not  to  zee  public  Zoo  where  zey  lie  about  in  zee 
sun  and  get  so  fat  as  an  old  concierge.  Nonl 
I  have  a  better  idea !  You  shall  have  one  of  my 
lions  as  model.  I  shall  arrange.  I  shall  come 
to  your  studio  some  morning  soon  and  we  talk  it 
over,  eh?  You  shall  show  me  zee  new  tiger  zat 
you  make  in  marble." 

"Can  I  expect  you  this  week?"  asked  Jack, 
enthusiastically. 

Desmoulins  raised  his  eyes,  met  the  gaze  of  the 
girl  and  lowered  them. 

"Zen  Thursday  morning,"  she  said,  "at  ten." 
And  with  a  frank  little  nod  to  us  both  she  swept 
away  in  the  throng  on  the  arm  of  Desmoulins, 


356    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

who,  good  fellow  as  he  was,  concealed  his  sudden 
jealousy,  I  must  confess,  with  poor  grace. 

Thursday  morning  Hollister's  studio  received 
an  extra  cleaning.  I  helped  him  straighten 
things  out,  stowing  the  trash  behind  the  curtain 
and  sweeping  into  the  dark  corners  as  much  of 
the  debris  of  failures  as  we  could.  Suddenly, 
the  rattle  and  abrupt  stopping  of  a  cab  put  an 
end  to  this  hasty  cleaning. 

"There  she  is!"  said  Jack,  shoving  the  broom 
under  the  divan.  "Don't  poke  your  head  in 
evidence  out  of  the  window,  it's  ill  bred." 

"Hark!"  whispered  Jack,  as  the  silky  swish 
and  rustle  of  skirts  preceded  by  a  slouching  tread 
approached  the  door. 

"  The  devil ! "  he  muttered.  "  I'll  bet  you  that 
Desmoulins  is  in  the  cab  with  her;  he's  never 
without  her,  in  fact." 

A  sharp  rap  brought  us  to  our  feet,  and  Hoi- 
lister  strode  over  to  slip  the  bolt.  As  he  did  so 
the  door  flew  open.  I  shall  never  forget  the 
sight  in  that  open  doorway.  There  stood  a  full- 
grown  lion,  and  a  little  behind  him,  one  gloved 


MONSIEUR  DE  COURCELLES  357 

hand  buried  in  his  shaggy  mane,  smiled  Made- 
moiselle Coralie  de  Favrier,  the  slight  cord  that 
tethered  the  lion  wrapped  about  her  wrist. 

I  am  not  used  to  full-grown  lions  butting  into 
one's  studio  at  ten  in  the  morning,  and  I  edged 
to  a  safer  corner. 

Coralie  was  still  smiling,  smiling  mischievously 
through  those  clear  blue  eyes  of  hers,  but  I  saw  a 
flash  of  pride  in  them  as  she  looked  at  Hollister, 
erect,  within  a  yard  of  her  pet. 

"  You  see,  my  good  friend,"  she  said  gayly,  "I 
have  kept  my  promise.  You  shall  make  zis  tune 
a  sketch  of  a  forest  bred. 

"Come,  Monsieur,"  she  added,  nodding  to  me. 
"  You  must  not  have  zee  fear.  He  will  not  hurt 
you.  He  is  my  good  old  Jean  Bart.  He  is  as 
gentle  as  a  kitten." 

She  led  the  lion  to  the  corner  beside  the  divan 
and  passed  the  cord  with  a  hah6  hitch  about 
Jack's  brass  fender. 

"  There !  Lie  down ! "  she  commanded  gently, 
and  the  great  beast  settled  to  the  floor,  turning 
in  his  huge  paws,  one  blow  of  which  could  have 
crushed  the  skull  of  an  ox. 


358    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"See!"  cried  Coralie.  "His  teeth  are  almost 
gone,  poor  old  beast!"  She  stripped  off  her 
gloves  and  tossed  them  on  the  divan  and  opened 
Jean  Bart's  jaws. 

"You  mean  to  say  you  brought  him  here  all  the 
way  from  the  Folies  Bergere?"  exclaimed  Jack. 

"  Yes,  why  not?  "  laughed  Coralie.  "  We  came 
in  a  closed  cab.  I  know  zee  coachman.  He 
used  to  be  my  groom  at  zee  Nouveau  Cirque. 
No  one  see  us." 

"It's  a  good  thing  my  old  concierge  lives  next 
door.  She  would  have  had  a  fit,"  replied  Jack. 

"Forgive  me  for  my  timidity,"  I  apologized. 
"I'm  afraid  my  nerves  are  not  as  steady  as  Mr. 
Hollister's." 

"Ah!  zat  is  quite  natural,  quite  natural,"  she 

replied.     "But    Monsieur    Holleestaire,"     she 

added,  looking  up  at  Jack  with  a  little  gleam  of 

pride,  "you  were  not  afraid.     You  stood  zee 

ground  like  an  old  hand.     You  have  seen  lions 

loose  before,  eh?     Yes,  I  am  right,  am  I  not? 

Zere  was  somezing  in  your  eyes  zat  told  me  so." 

:*Yes,  once,"  confessed  Jack. 

''You  were  training  once?"  she  asked,  with  as 


MONSIEUR  DE  COURCELLES  359 

much  naturalness  as  if  she  had  inquired  if  he 
had  once  studied  law. 

"No,  shooting." 

"In  Africa?" 

'Yes,  with  Sir  Roderick  Welch.  We  were 
gone  ten  months  until  the  rain  cut  us  off.  I 
killed  two,"  added  Jack.  "An  old  and  a  young 
one,  but  Sir  Roderick  killed  four.  He  is  a  fine 
shot  and  a  fine  fellow." 

Again  Coralie  looked  into  his  eyes  with  that 
same  flash  of  pride  she  had  given  him  as  she 
entered.  "I  too  have  been  in  Africa,"  she  said, 
simply. 

She  was  seated  now  in  the  cozy  corner  of  the 
divan. 

"  I  knew  it,"  she  exclaimed.  :<  You  Americans 
have  zee  courage.  I  like  zat.  Zat  is  why  zis 
morning  I  come  to  you.  Listen ! 

"Somezing  dreadful  has  happened.  Last 
night  at  zee  Cafe  de  Paris,"  she  raised  her  hand 
as  Jack  started  to  speak.  "Listen!"  she  re- 
peated, almost  severely.  "What  a  dinner  last 
night!  What  a  dinner!  It  is  zat  jalousie  which 
makes  always  some  stupide  trouble,  eh  ? 


360    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"  You  know  Desmoulins?  "  she  went  on  rapidly, 
with  a  toss  of  her  head. 

Jack  and  I  nodded. 

"  Well,  you  know  he  vary  fond  of  me.  He  ask 
me  always  zat  I  marry  him.  An'  I  say  no,  not 
yet,  and  so  he  ask  me  thousand  times  zee  same 
sing.  In  zee  theatre,  at  zee  supper,  oh,  la,  la!" 
and  she  shrugged  her  shoulders,  hopelessly.  "  He 
is  quite  crazy,  zat  Desmoulins,  an'  last  night  we 
dine  at  zee  Cafe  de  Paris." 

"I  see,"  interrupted  Jack,  "and  there  some 
brute  looked  at  you  in  a  way  Desmoulins  did 
not  like." 

"No,  not  zat  exactly.  Franchard,  zee  archi- 
tect, he  come  into  zee  cafe,  and  he  is  an  old  friend 
of  Desmoulins.  Zey  are  what  you  say  in  Eng- 
lish, like  brozaires,  and  Desmoulins  he  make 
Franchard  anozer  place  at  zee  table.  Well,  mon 
Dieu,  we  have  not  eat  zee  fish  before  in  come 
Gaston  de  Courcelles.  You  know  zat  old  bear?  " 

Jack  hesitated. 

'  My  goodness,  you  do  not  know  zat  De  Cour- 
celles? Why,  everybody  in  Paris  know  him. 
It  is  he  who  arrange  zee  —  zee  duels  like  Diebler 


MONSIEUR  DE  COURCELLES  361 

arrange  zee  execution  —  rfest-ce  pas?  Zat  stu- 
pide  fat  old  De  Courcelles,  wiz  his  red  face  an' 
his  big  moustache!  and  he  is  so  stupide  —  oh,  la, 
la!  He  always  make  trouble.  So  zat  old  fool 
he  come  dine  wiz  us  so  we  make  four  at  table  and 
Desmoulins  and  Franchard  zey  drink  two  bottles 
of  champagne  while  zat  old  bear  he  pay  me  zee 
compliment.  He  like  I  marry  him,  too,  and 
Franchard  he  want  I  marry  him  and  he  ask  me 
hundred  times  but  nevaire  before  Desmoulins 
for  zey  were  zee  best  of  friends.  So  when  zee 
bill  came  Franchard  he  pay  it  as  quick  as  a 
prestidigitateur  and  zat  make  Desmoulins  mad. 
He  say  Franchard  is  a  bad  friend  to  him,  and  zen 
De  Courcelles  he  get  redder  in  zee  face,  and  he  say 
somezing  to  Desmoulins  zat  make  Franchard 
and  he  look  at  each  ozer  as  white  as  my 
mouchoir." 

"Um!"  said  Jack,  and  he  wheeled  where  he 
sat,  regarding  Coralie  intently. 

"People  begin  look  at  us  and  I  say  I  going  to 
leave  and  I  send  for  zee  coachman  for  my  coupe, 
and  when  zee  maid  she  help  me  on  wiz  my  cloak, 
Desmoulins  he  slap  Franchard's  face." 


362    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

The  lion  raised  his  shaggy  head,  as  Coralie's 
voice  rose  in  her  intensity. 

"Now  zey  is  going  to  fight,  for  zat  old  fool  De 
Courcelles,  he  say  zey  must  fight  for  zee  sake  of 
zere  honaire.  I  go  now  to  see  him."  She  rose 
from  the  divan  with  a  defiant  look  in  her  eyes. 

"I  vill  not  have  zat  duel  on  my  account,"  she 
cried,  "  zat  I  vill  not  have.  Zey  are  crazy,  all  of 
zem.  I  go  talk  to  De  Courcelles.  I  leave  Jean 
Bart  viz  you.  I  shall  be  back  for  him  in  half  an 
hour.  You  need  not  be  afraid,  he  will  be  as 
quiet  as  a  dog." 

"I  see,"  muttered  Jack,  and  he  fell  to  pacing 
the  floor,  as  Coralie  adjusted  her  veil. 

"And  you  say  De   Courcelles   arranged   it?" 

questioned  Hollister,  looking  gloomily  up  into 

Coralie's  eyes,  as  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"Yes,  it  was  he  -   "  she  answered.     "It  is  not 

zee  first  time  he  arrange  zose  horrid  affairs." 

The  lion  rose,  dragging  the  fender  with  him, 
then  settled  down  obedient  to  the  command  of 
his  mistress.  He  evidently  understood,  for, 
though  he  watched  her  every  movement  with  his 
old  gray  eyes,  he  made  no  further  attempt  to 


MONSIEUR  DE  COURCELLES  363 

follow  her  to  the  door.  "  Au  revoir,  my  friend," 
said  Coralie,  and,  with  a  word  to  Jean  Bart,  she 
closed  the  door  behind  her. 

We  were  alone  with  the  lion. 

Do  you  know  how  it  feels  to  be  alone  with  a 
lion?  It  is  an  uncomfortable  sensation,  a  sense 
of  being  helpless  before  the  king  of  beasts  with 
only  his  good  will  between  you  and  death. 

I  watched  him  as  Jack  made  half  a  dozen 
memorandum  sketches  of  him.  He  was  majestic 
as  he  lay  there  in  the  corner  of  the  studio  with 
his  ponderous  head,  his  tawny  mane  and  those 
dignified  eyes  of  his.  As  lions  go,  Jean  Bart  was 
an  exception,  for  his  mistress  had  told  us  he  had 
never  yet "  gone  bad,"  and  more  than  once  he  had 
saved  the  life  of  Coralie  —  once  in  Berlin  when 
she  had  slipped,  (that  calamity,  the  most  hope- 
less that  can  happen  to  a  trainer  of  wild  beasts) 
and  Jean  Bart  had  defended  her  from  two  other 
lions.  Now,  he  was  too  old  to  work  and  too 
wise  to  be  savage.  Occasionally  a  low  moan 
escaped  him,  but  it  was  more  like  the  whine  of 
an  obedient  dog  left  on  a  doorstep. 

"He's  lovely!"  said  Jack,  laying  down  his 


364    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

sketch  block.  "Have  a  cigarette?"  and  he 
brought  me  the  box  from  the  end  of  the  divan, 
then  he  crossed  to  the  stove  and  stood  smoking 
for  some  time  in  silence. 

"Then,"  he  said  at  length.  "I  wonder  what 
would  happen  to  De  Courcelles  if  he  ever  got  as 
far  West  as  Cripple  Creek?  I  can  see  De  Cour- 
celles trying  to  '  arrange '  things  some  Saturday 
night  in  the  American  'Eagle  Bar'  or  down  at 
'Four  Star'  when  the  gang  was  flush.  He'd 
get  all  the  arrangement  he  wanted.  He  doesn't 
even  deserve  a  pine  box.  I've  seen  better  men 
than  he  go  into  six  feet  of  dirt  without  one.  I 
didn't  tell  mademoiselle  that  I  knew  him,  but  I 
do.  He  was  raising  trouble  then  between  two 
old  friends,  just  as  he's  doing  now,  for  he  was 
responsible  for  the  death  of  the  young  Baron 
de  Grim,  shot  dead,  in  one  of  those  'arrange- 
ments,' by  the  Baron's  best  friend,  Paul  Cha- 
bron,  over  the  dancer,  Lea  Terrelli.  You  can  see 
Chabron  any  night  you  care  to  dining  alone  at 
Weber's.  He  is  only  thirty-eight,  but  he  looks 
sixty.  It  broke  his  heart.  Oh,  De  Courcelles 
takes  jolly  good  care  he  doesn't  fight  himself." 


MONSIEUR  DE  COURCELLES  365 

"  What  is  to  be  done?  "  I  asked.  "  It  is  evident 
Franchard  was  drunk  and  Desmoulins  lost  his 
temper.  You  remember,  we  used  to  see  them 
continually  together.  Why !  they  seemed  insepa- 
rable pals." 

"Of  course,"  said  Hollister,  "for  years  the 
best  of  pals,"  he  broke  out  hotly,  "it's  an 
outrage.  You  might  as  well  have  a  duel  be- 
tween us.  Bah!"  and  he  threw  his  cigarette 
into  the  stove.  "Why,  there  isn't  one  duel  out 
of  a  hundred  around  Paris,"  he  added,  "that  if 
the  principals  had  their  way,  wouldn't  be  settled 
by  a  handshake." 

The  lion  raised  his  head.  Again  the  swish  of 
silk  outside. 

A  knock  interrupted  us. 

"It  is  impossible,"  cried  Coralie,  rushing  in, 
"  I  have  talked  to  zat  old  beast  of  a  De  Courcelles 
-mon  Dieu!  It  is  not  pleasant  to  cry  before 
an  old  pig  like  zat.  He  vill  listen  to  not- 
zing."  She  went  over,  buried  her  gloved  hand 
in  the  lion's  mane  and  suddenly,  with  a 
choking  voice  turned  upon  Hollister.  "If  I 
had  a  man  to  deal  viz  like  you,  he  would 


366    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

listen.  You  are  brave,  but  zat  old  De  Cour- 
celles  is  a  coward." 

"And  they  are  going  to  fight? "  muttered  Jack. 

:'Yes,"  returned  Coralie.  'To-morrow  at 
Vincennes . ' '  The  blue  eyes  were  looking  straight 
into  his  now  and  he  saw  them  fill  with  tears. 

"Um!"  remarked  Hollister. 

"I  must  go,"  she  said.  "My  cab  is  waiting 
and  my  lions  must  be  fed."  She  spoke  to  Jean 
Bart,  slipped  the  cord  from  the  fender,  wound  it 
about  her  wrist,  and  led  him  to  the  door. 

"Now  see,  please,  if  zere  is  any  one  on  zee 
stairs,"  she  requested. 

Hollister  opened  the  door,  stepped  out  and 
peered  down  the  rickety  flight. 

"Not  a  soul,"  he  said.  "One  moment!"  he 
added.  "Do  you  know  the  hour  of  the  duel?" 

"Yes,"  she  returned.  "At  six,  as  soon  as  it  is 
light,  in  zat  leetle  woods  back  of  zee  deserted 
cottage." 

"Good,"  said  Hollister.  "How  did  you  man- 
age to  find  out?" 

"I  gave  De  Courcelles'  valet  a  louis,"  she  re- 
plied, half  closing  her  blue  eyes. 


MONSIEUR  DE  COURCELLES  367 

With  a  lunging  gait  the  lion  descended  the 
stairs,  Coralie  holding  him  in  check  and  speaking 
to  him  as  he  picked  his  way  to  the  bottom. 

A  moment  later  we  heard  the  door  of  the  cab 
slam  shut. 

An  hour  before  the  earliest  street  cries  had 
echoed  along  that  aristocratic  highway,  the 
Boulevard  St.  Germain,  the  valet  of  Monsieur 
Gaston  de  Courcelles  noiselessly  entered  the 
bedroom  of  his  master.  His  tread  was  catlike 
in  its  softness. 

Monsieur  de  Courcelles  lay  snoring,  his  fero- 
cious moustache  showing  above  a  bed  quilt  of 
scarlet  satin. 

The  valet  drew  back  the  heavy  curtains  of  the 
window. 

"Bah!"  he  muttered  to  himself  as  he  gazed 
out  into  the  chill  fog.  "A  villain  of  a  morning. 
It  will  be  muddy  enough  this  time,  mon 


He  placed  a  nickelled  pitcher  of  hot  water  be- 
side an  Empire  shaving  table,  laid  a  pair  of  pol- 
ished boots  beside  it,  and  screwed  three  turquoise 


368    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

studs  into  a  shirt  with  a  frilled  bosom.  Then  he 
bent  over  his  master,  and  said: 

"Monsieur,  it  is  a  quarter  to  five." 

"Good,"  growled  the  voice  beneath  the  quilt. 

Neither  Desmoulins  nor  Franchard  possessing 
valets,  the  former  had  risen  an  hour  before  the 
first  glimmer  of  dawn  after  a  sleepless  night  in 
his  studio,  while  Franchard  was  at  that  moment 
in  his  room  across  the  Seine  awaiting  the  arrival 
of  his  seconds  and  trying  to  choke  down  some 
coffee  and  half  a  crescent. 

Franchard  had  had  the  misfortune  to  look  in 
the  glass. 

He  was  ghastly  pale,  half  ill,  and  shook  with  a 
nervous  tremor. 

Meantime  Mademoiselle  Coralie  de  Favrier 
paced  the  floor  of  her  boudoir.  She  too,  had  not 
slept. 

An  hour  later,  within  a  muddy  patch  of  woods 
drenched  with  fog  in  the  Bois  de  Vincennes,  Des- 
moulins and  Franchard  stood  apart,  avoiding 
each  other's  eyes.  Hatless,  and  each  in  a  loose 
white  shirt,  collarless  and  open  at  the  throat, 
they  stood  out  in  marked  contrast  to  the  half 


MONSIEUR  DE  COURCELLES  869 

dozen  men  who  had  assembled  in  their  top  hats 
and  overcoats.  As  to  these,  their  deportment 
and  conversation  were  as  conventional  as  their 
dress  upon  similar  occasions.  They  spoke,  as 
undertakers  do  at  a  funeral. 

The  drenching  fog  hah*  obscured  the  leafless 
branches  of  the  trees.  Beside  the  trunk  of  one, 
bending  over  a  polished  mahogany  case  contain- 
ing a  glittering  brace  of  blue-barrelled  pistols, 
stood  De  Courcelles,  enveloped  in  a  fur  coat,  the 
collar  turned  up  to  the  brim  of  his  sleek,  silk  hat. 
Beside  him  stood  a  sparsely  built  young  doctor 
unwinding  a  long  bandage,  the  end  of  whch 
coiled  itself  like  a  snake  in  a  small  black  valise 
open  at  his  feet.  A  little  beyond,  three  carriages 
waited  at  the  edge  of  the  wood,  their  drivers  keep- 
ing at  a  respectful  distance  from  the  party. 

It  was  at  this  instant  that  a  fourth  coupe  drew 
rapidly  up  behind  the  rest,  and  a  tall  young  man 
with  broad  shoulders  sprang  out  and  strode 
toward  the  sinister  group  among  the  trees. 

The  group  turned  in  amazement,  De  Courcelles 
glowering  at  the  intruder. 

It  was  Hollister. 


370    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"Gentlemen,"  began  Hollister,  raising  his  hat, 
a  formality  which  was  returned  by  the  others, 
despite  their  feelings. 

"Monsieur  Gaston  de  Courcelles,  I  believe," 
said  Jack,  facing  the  bristling  moustache,  and 
with  a  sweeping  glance  at  the  others,  he  con- 
tinued: "I  am  fully  aware,  gentlemen,  that  I 
am  an  intruder." 

His  first  words  had  told  the  others  by  his  ac- 
cent that  he  was  not  only  an  intruder  but  a  for- 
eigner, a  fact  which  to  them  doubled  the  insult. 

"  I  have  come  here  to  interview  you,  Monsieur 
de  Courcelles." 

The  rest  were  silent,  seemingly  too  amazed  to 
do  much  but  mutter  and  gesticulate.  De  Cour- 
celles' eyes  were  blazing. 

"You,  you  come  here  to  interview  me,"  he 
snarled,  "y°u  come  to  make  trouble,  eh?"  his 
fat  neck  growing  purple  with  rage. 

"Yes,  I  remember  you  now,"  he  sneered. 
"You  were  a  friend  of  Madame  Terrili's." 

"A  chance  acquaintance,"  returned  Jack 
coolly,  "not  a  friend,  but  I  have  every  reason  to 
believe  you  knew  that  woman  better  than  I, 


MONSIEUR  DE  COURCELLES  371 

since  you  were  so  interested  in  the  murder  of  the 
Baron  de  Grim." 

"Murder!"  cried  De  Courcelles,  hoarsely. 
"What  do  you  mean?"  He  paled  as  he  said 
it,  his  fat  hands  slinking  into  his  pock- 
ets. 

"I  mean  precisely  what  I  say,"  said  Jack. 

De  Courcelles'  puffy  eyelids  half  closed  until 
the  vicious  little  pupils  behind  them  sparkled 
like  a  snake's. 

'You  tell  me  I  am  concerned  in  a  murder, 
eh?  You  come  here  to  insult  me  before  these, 
these  gentlemen?  I  tell  you  the  Baron  de  Grim 
and  Chabron  fought  fairly." 

;<They  might  have,"  returned  Jack,  "if  the 
sight  on  the  Baron's  pistol  had  not  been  tampered 
with,  and  had  the  Baron's  trigger  pulled  as  easily 
as  his  adversary's." 

"Bah!"  thundered  De  Courcelles,  "you  Ang- 
lais speak  from  the  tittle-tattle  of  the  riffraff  of 
your  dirty  cafes." 

"One  hears  much  in  Paris,  sooner  or  later," 
answered  Jack,  "especially  when  it  concerns  the 
honour  of  two  old  friends.  I  heard  this  from 


372    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

an  eyewitness  in  the  French  Embassy.  Besides, 
I'm  not  English,  I'm  an  American." 

:'You  dog  of  an  Anglais,"  roared  De  Cour- 
celles.  '  You  shall  pay  me  for  this,  pay  me  with 
your  skin." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Jack.  "I  was  waiting  for 
that,  that  is  what  I  have  come  for,  for  you, 
Monsieur  de  Courcelles.  It  is  you  who  are  respon- 
sible for  this  duel.  Now  you  shall  answer  to  me." 

Jack's  great  shoulders  towered  above  the  ex- 
cited group  about  him. 

"  Now —  do  you  understand?  "  he  cried.  "  I  am 
doing  the  arranging  this  time.  There  will  be  no 
pistols  or  seconds  in  it  either."  With  a  quick 
gesture  he  ripped  off  his  coat  and  stood  with  his 
fist  in  De  Courcelles'  face,  the  rest  keeping  at  a 
safe  distance  from  his  great  arms,  De  Courcelles 
backing  away  from  him  in  a  torrent  of  French. 

"Right  now"  thundered  Jack.  "Do  you 
hear?  You'll  stand  up  and  fight  me  now  like  a 
man.  We'll  fight  like  men  fight  in  my  country, 
not  like  monkeys." 

De  Courcelles  shielded  his  face,  livid  with 
sudden  fear,  with  his  fat  hands. 


MONSIEUR  DE  COURCELLES  373 

"I  did  not  —  arrange  it,"  he  managed  to 
stammer.  "I  tell  you  this  duel  is  between  Mes- 
sieurs Desmoulins  and  Franchard.  Have  a  care 
what  you  say  to  me." 

:<You  lie!"  shouted  Jack.  "You  did  arrange 
it!  Shut  up!  If  you  open  your  head  again, 
I'll  smash  it." 

Then  De  Courcelles  did  a  foolish  thing,  for 
he  put  all  the  strength  of  his  big  frame  into  a 
straight  swinging  side  kick.  He  was  an  expert 
at  it,  but  Hollister  was  too  quick  for  him.  He 
sidestepped,  tripped  him,  and  with  a  swinging 
left-hander  sent  him  reeling  to  the  ground  and  out. 

The  excited  gentlemen  made  no  resistance. 
Hardly  an  articulate  word  escaped  them  until 
they  had  picked  up  the  half -conscious  De  Cour- 
celles and  carried  him  to  his  carriage.  Then  a 
volley  of  French  reached  Jack,  and  they  con- 
tinued to  gesticulate  and  curse  him  until  a  bend 
in  the  road  hid  them  from  view. 

During  the  entire  row  neither  Desmoulins  nor 
Franchard  had  spoken  a  word.  They  still  stood 
apart,  but  now  they  had  forgotten  to  avoid  each 
other's  eyes. 


374    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"Shake  hands,  you  two,"  said  Jack.  "Come, 
what's  the  use?  This  blackguardly  business  is 
at  an  end.  Come,  be  friends  and  forget  it." 

Desmoulins  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Franchard,"  he  said,  "I  have  no  wish  to  risk 
your  life  or  to  risk  mine.  If  I  were  to  kill  you, 
I  should  never  forgive  myself." 

Franchard  gazed  at  the  muddy  ground.  Then 
he  looked  up  at  his  friend.  He  was  deathly 
white  and  swayed  visibly  like  an  ill  man.  Sud- 
denly he  turned  and  stumbled  forward  to- 
ward the  outstretched  hand  of  Desmoulins. 
As  he  reeled  and  fainted,  Hollister  caught 
him. 

Half  an  hour  later  a  closed  cab  drew  up  under 
the  entrance  of  Mademoiselle  Coralie  de  Fav- 
rier's  apartment.  Jack  sprang  out,  leaped  up  to 
the  fifth  floor  and  rang  the  bell.  He  had  not 
long  to  wait.  A  sudden  wrench  of  the  knob  and 
Coralie  opened  the  door.  For  some  moments 
she  was  unable  to  speak.  She  just  looked  at 
him  with  her  blue  eyes,  as  feminine  as  her  hair, 
and  full  of  tears. 


MONSIEUR  DE  COURCELLES  375 

'Tell  me,"  she  managed  to  gasp.  The  hand 
she  gave  Hollister  trembled. 

"It  is  all  over,"  said  Jack  grimly. 

"Desmoulins,"  she  stammered.  "He  is  not 
hurt.  Ah!  No,  no!  Zat  is  not  zee  truth." 

Jack  followed  her  into  the  salon  where  she 
flung  herself  on  a  low  couch  in  a  frenzy  of  grief. 

"  Come ! "  said  Jack.  "  Come  with  me  at  once. 
Get  your  things  on.  We  are  going  out.  Only 
you  can  help  things  now.  You  must  do  as  I  tell 
you." 

"What  you  mean?"  she  asked  between  her 
sobs,  her  tired  eyes  searching  his  own. 

"Come  at  once,"  repeated  Jack,  "my  cab  is 
below." 

She  obeyed  him,  mechanically,  as  one  of  her 
lions  might  have  obeyed  her,  and  without  a  word 
went  to  her  room  for  her  hat  and  wraps.  When 
she  returned  she  was  more  mistress  of  herself, 
but  she  dared  not  trust  herself  to  speak. 

They  descended  the  stairs  in  silence. 

"Are  you  alone?"  she  whispered  pleadingly, 
as  they  reached  the  landing  of  the  second  flight. 

"No,"  said  Jack,  "a  gentleman  is  with  me." 


376    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"His  second?"  she  faltered. 

"A  friend,"  answered  Jack,  evasively,  as  he 
led  the  way  to  the  waiting  cab. 

"The  horse  is  fidgety,  get  in  quickly,"  cau- 
tioned Jack,  with  a  smile,  as  her  tiny  foot  touched 
the  muddy  step  of  the  cab. 

A  cry  of  joy  escaped  Coralie. 

"Paul!  Ah,  my  dearest!"  The  next  instant 
she  was  in  Desmoulin's  arms,  sobbing  like  a  child. 

"Driver!"  shouted  Hollister  as  he  got  in  and 
closed  the  door,  "quick  —  to  the  Cafe  de  Paris, 
we  are  as  hungry  as  wolves ! " 

One  Sunday  afternoon  last  September  I  went  up  to  St. 
Cloud.  As  usual  there  was  a  great  crowd,  most  of  it  around 
a  collection  of  wagons  —  one  of  those  small  travelling  circuses. 
In  the  main  cage  a  girl  in  tights  was  defying  a  roaring,  blood- 
thirsty lion.  It  was  the  same  old  Jean  Bart,  but  the  girl  was 
not  Coralie.  Coralie  married  Desmoulins. — F.  B.  S. 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 
"THE  REFUGEES" 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

"THE  REFUGEES" 

T  TAVE   you   ever   seen   a  thousand  francs, 
-*•  •*  Marie?  —  all   at   once  —  in   a  drawer  - 
fifty  bright  gold  louis?" 

"Parbleu!"  exclaimed  Marie,  her  black  eyes 
opening  in  wonder. 

I  might  as  well  have  asked  that  good  little 
model  of  mine,  "When  you  last  took  a  brisk 
walk  on  the  moon  do  you  remember  the  million 
you  tripped  over?" 

"Listen,  my  child,"  I  continued.  "Come, 
draw  the  big  chair  over  here  by  the  stove  - 

379 


380    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

put  this  over  your  shoulders.  There's  a  draught 
from  the  skylight.  You've  posed  enough  for 
to-day.  B-r-r !  What  dirty  weather ! ' ' 

She  did  as  I  bade  her  with  her  eager  smile  of 
a  gamine  which  asks  for  nothing  and  expects 
naught,  and  when  I  had  dragged  my  painting 
stool  up  to  the  comforting  stove  and  relighted 
my  pipe  with  a  scrap  of  a  discarded  drawing  of 
her  trim  head,  I  became  serious  and  proceeded. 

"  It  seems  like  a  fairy  tale,  a  miracle,  but  it  is 
nevertheless  true,"  I  resumed. 

"AhrsI"  breathed  Marie,  still  wondering 
what  I  really  meant.  "Fifty  louis!  Parbleu! 
Ah,  no,"  she  laughed.  "One  does  not  see  fifty 
louis  all  at  once  —  one  never  sees  fifty  louis." 

"Listen,  my  child.  You  remember  the  day 
you  posed  for  Laurent?" 

She  nodded  her  pretty  head. 

"Perfectly." 

"And  we  all  lunched  together,  at  the  Faisan 
D'or?  —  you  and  Vautrin  and  Laurent  and  I? 
Very  well.  Vautrin,  you  remember,  stopped  at 
the  cafe  on  the  corner  for  some  cigarettes  and 
insisted  on  buying  a  lottery  ticket,  and  you  re- 


"THE  REFUGEES"  381 

call  my  telling  you  I  went  halves  on  it.  You 
said  we  were  both  crazy.  Well,  my  infant, 
we've  won!" 

"What!"  gasped  Marie  in  amazement. 

"We're  rich  —  you  and  Vautrin  and  I;  and 
it's  Christmas  time,  and  you're  going  to  have  a 
real  gown,  my  little  one,  and  go  to  supper  at 
the  Cafe  de  Paris,  like  a  grande  dame,  Christ- 
mas Eve.  There!  there!  You  must  not  cry; 
you  must  be  gay.  We're  going  to  be  gay,  I  tell 
you!  What  a  fete!  Ah,  you  shall  see!" 

The  tears  ceased,  but  she  was  trembling  with 
excitement.  Then  her  firm  young  arms  went 
about  my  neck  in  a  hug  of  camaraderie,  and 
with  the  surprise,  and  the  joy,  and  the  sudden- 
ness of  it  all,  the  tears  came  again. 

"You  must  not,"  she  managed  to  protest  at 
length. 

"En  fete!"  I  cried,  and  catching  both  her 
small  hands  in  my  own  I  forced  her  to  dance 
about  the  stove. 

"You  must  not!"  she  pleaded.  "I  do  not 
want  the  dress.  It  is  foolish,  the  —  the  fe'te. 
It  is  not  right.  Both  you  and  Vautrin  are  poor." 


382    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"And  you?" 

"Bah!     I  am  used  to  it." 

"That's  just  it.  You're  going  to  have  a 
change.  If  you  think  we're  going  to  save  a  pal- 
try thousand  francs  won  in  a  lottery  for  our  old 
age,  and  yours,  you're  mistaken.  No!  No! 
We  shall  live!  We  shall  eat  and  drink  and 
be  merry.  Eh!  my  little  one?  That's  right, 
smile.  You  shall  see  how  beautiful  you  shall 
be;  how  every  one  will  gaze  at  you.  New 
Year's  Eve  we  shall  sup  at  the  Abbaye  The- 
leme.  Ha!  ha!  That's  right  —  laugh,  laugh,  my 
little  one.  En  fete,  eh?  En  fete!"  But  I  did 
not  need  to  insist,  the  spirit  of  fete  was  already 
tingling  in  this  good  little  Parisienne's  veins. 

"Ah!  but  it's  chid"  she  cried.  "Mais  c'est 
chic  —  mais  c'est  chic!" 

"Come,  be  quick,"  I  insisted.  "Get  into 
your  things.  Come  up  to  Vautrin's.  It  is  in  his 
drawer  —  fifty  gold  louis !  You  shall  see  for 
yourself." 

A  few  moments  later  we  were  rushing  up  the 
stairs  to  Vautrin's  studio  door,  and  at  the  first 
rap  that  genial  bohemian  of  a  painter  opened 


"THE  REFUGEES"  383 

it  wide  with  a  yell.  He'd  been  waiting,  in  fact, 
until  I  had  broken  the  good  news  to  Marie. 
Then  he  bowed  gravely  and  stood  there  smiling 
into  Marie's  black  eyes. 

"It  is  not  true!"  insisted  Marie. 

:*Your  Majesty  shall  see,"  he  grinned,  and 
kissed  her  on  both  cheeks.  "The  fortune,  your 
Majesty,"  he  added,  drawing  himself  up  dram- 
atically to  his  full  height,  "lies  in  the  second 
drawer  yonder  of  the  paint  cabinet.  Your 
Majesty  has  but  to  glance  within." 

She  approached  on  tiptoe,  with  the  eager 
expectancy  of  a  child,  and  peered  into  the 
drawer  with  its  treasure. 

"  Comme  c'est  chic! "  she  gasped. 

It  was  thus  our  Christmas  f£te  began. 

What  a  kind  old  lottery  to  have  remembered 
us  —  and  the  direct oire  gown  —  green  as  an 
emerald,  accenting  the  whiteness  of  Marie's 
young  neck  and  arms  and  the  jet  blackness  of 
her  hair,  which  we  adorned  with  two  bands  of 
old  gold  whose  rosettes  half  hid  her  small  pink 
ears.  She  was  adorable;  but  then  Marie  would 


384    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

be  adorable  even  in  rags.  You  do  not  know 
Madeleine  Lefevre.  Never  mind!  Madeleine 
was  once  a  model  like  Marie.  Now  she  directs 
a  shop  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  a  very  smart  place 
for  gowns,  I  assure  you,  and  the  interest  she 
took  in  that  emerald  vision  was  a  delight. 
Vautrin  and  I  felt  like  twin  millionaires  as  Marie 
sat  between  us  and  the  manequins  filed  past. 
Then  came  that  eventful  morning  when  Made- 
leine Lefevre  called  up  the  tube: 

"La    robe    pour  Mademoiselle  Marie"   and 
lo  and  behold,  down  came  the  emerald  gown  - 
finished  —  carried  over  the  arm  of  a  freckled 
little  girl  in  a  black  waist. 

Marie  almost  cried  with  joy. 

Ah,  what  a  f£te  we  had!  The  Cafe  de  Paris 
jammed  during  that  midnight,  all  night  supper. 
The  room  shimmering  in  light,  gay  with  aban- 
don, fair  women,  hot  food,  and  cold  wine.  They 
danced,  sometimes  on  the  tables,  sometimes  on 
the  floor;  they  sang.  People  you  had  never  met 
before  became  bosom  friends  before  daylight, 
a  bedlam  of  tambourines  and  Chinese  paper 
caps  with  a  queue  that  blew  up  on  high  and  a  shrill 


"THE  REFUGEES"  385 

whistle  on  the  end  —  and  all  through  it  Marie 
was  adorable.  Young  bloods,  old  viveurs, 
officers,  celebrities,  bent  with  the  permission  of 
the  two  millionaires,  and  kissed  her  small  hand. 
The  compliments  only  made  her  laugh. 

"Madame,  you  are  adorable." 

"Madame,  you  are  exquisite." 

Eh,  Voila!  It  was  daylight,  a  gray,  drizzling, 
winter  daylight  when  we  left;  and  for  a  whole 
week  we  three,  Marie,  Vautrin,  and  I,  lunched 
where  we  pleased.  Then  occurred  an  even  wilder 
all-night  supper  at  the  Abbaye  Theleme,  wild 
enough  to  have  satisfied  Rabelais,  and  the 
emerald  gown  withstood  it  all.  Indeed  there 
was  not  a  spot  upon  it.  Marie  had  been  very 
careful. 

All  this  I  have  described  is  but  a  passing  in- 
cident in  the  realm  of  Parisian  Bohemia.  The 
following  week  both  Vautrin  and  myself  were 
off  shooting  in  that  splendid  game  country  be- 
low Orleans,  in  Sologne.  There  were  days  now 
when  we  cracked  away  at  the  ducks  and  pheas- 
ants, at  hares  and  the  swift  French  partridge, 


386    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

and  nights  after  dinner  before  the  roaring  wood 
fire  of  our  host,with  a  jolly  crowd  of  solid  French- 
men, distinguished  in  the  arts  —  simple  men, 
all  of  them,  good  comrades  and  honesjt  sports- 
men. And  what  a  rousing  welcome  they  gave 
us.  Then  back  to  Paris  and  to  work,  with  just 
enough  left  of  that  lottery  ticket  to  pay  a  fiacre 
from  the  station  at  the  Quai  D'Orsay  to  the 
studio.  Both  Vautrin's  and  mine  were  clean 
—  everything  was  in  order  —  even  the  floor  had 
been  polished  and  the  canvases  stacked  neatly 
and  the  curtains  really  dusted;  and  both  our 
small  kitchens  scrubbed.  Marie  had  seen  to 
that,  bless  her  heart! 

January  slipped  by  with  nothing  to  disturb 
one  from  the  even  working  life.  The  unex- 
pected raps  at  my  studio  door,  a  serious  attempt 
to  paint  better,  and  those  long  talks  after  din- 
ner at  the  little  cafe  up  the  Rue  des  Deux  Amis, 
where  Vautrin  and  I  go  nightly  to  dine  on  two 
francs  fifty  centimes  -  vin  compris.  It  is  like 
one  big  family  there,  with  Bauvillon  and  Susette. 
Laurent  and  La  Petite  Lyonnaise  —  Legas, 


"THE  REFUGEES"  387 

Yvonne,  and  Marie,  who  dines  with  us  when  she 
is  not  dining  with  her  aunt  whom  she  is  devoted 
to  and  who  lives  in  the  Rue  Norvin. 

At  this  family  table  every  one  has  something 
to  say  after  he  or  she  has  swallowed  their  soup, 
and  not  a  story  will  you  hear,  but  in  their  stead, 
discussions,  arguments,  opinions,  always  opin- 
ions, seldom  about  much  else  save  the  price  of 
necessities  and  affairs  of  the  heart.  Other  im- 
portant subjects,  too,  relative  to  the  fact  that 
Amelie,  frankly,  does  not  know  how  to  wear  her 
clothes.  That  the  fur  coat  that  Marguerite 
acquired  through  an  affair  of  the  heart,  a  fur 
coat  that  was  a  sensation  on  the  Butte  de  Mont- 
martre  at  the  time  it  was  acquired,  and  which 
cost  the  fabulous  sum  of  four  hundred  and 
eighty  francs,  subsequently  became  the  prop- 
perty  of  the  Government's  pawnshop  for  eighty 
francs.  That  it  is  indeed  true  that  Francine's 
brown  eyes  are  beautiful,  but  that  she  is  as 
stupid  as  her  feet,  and  that  Blanche  Veron  has 
disappeared  from  the  family  table  and  is  now 
"dans  ces  meubles"  (in  her  furniture),  from  which 
you  may  gather  that  she  is  now  called  "Mad- 


388    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

ame,"  and  has  her  gloves  cleaned  and  will  no 
longer  be  seen  at  the  family  table  in  the  little 
cafe  in  the  Rue  des  Deux  Amis.  And  when 
Helene  says  she  remembers  Blanche  when  she 
was  the  daughter  of  a  ragpicker  who  lived  out 
in  St.  Ouen — !  Tiens!  —  and  not  once  will 
you  hear  a  really  unkind  word  save  so  rarely 
that  you  exclaim  Ah!  in  surprise.  Only  the 
other  day  the  bad  character  of  one  was  proven. 
She  wrote  a  threatening  letter  to  a  painter!  It 
is  almost  unbelievable.  The  crowd  roared: 
she  must  be  crazy.  "I  knew  her  only  slightly," 
said  Amelie,  "but  in  my  opinion  she  is  a  bad 
girl." 

"She  has  no  heart,"  interrupted  Lisette. 

;<You  may  well  believe,"  echoed  Helene  with 
quiet  conviction. 

"It   was   not   very   discreet   in   her,"   piped 
Rosalie  from  the  shadow  of  her  lamp-shade  hat. 

Only  when  one  is  really  hungry  one  asks  - 
oh,  for  so  little  —  a  franc,  a  franc  seventy,  forty 
sous,  and  so  discreetly,  with  such  gentle  honesty, 
that  it  grips  one's  heart  and  you  begin  to  realize 
the  sincerity  of  these  little  sparrows  of  Mont- 


"THE  REFUGEES"  389 

marcre,  whose  courage  is  amazing  under  a  sys- 
tem of  daily  economy  such  as  the  American 
woman  has  no  idea  of,  and  under  such  privations 
and  disappointments  that  you  marvel  that  the 
smile  of  camaraderie  still  bravely  remains. 

In  what  lies  this  subtle  charm  of  Paris?  This 
quiet  old  pleasure  ground,  in  which  the  more  you 
live  within  its  fortifications  the  more  you  see 
that  Paris  is  a  domain  of  small  villages,  called 
"Quartiers,"  whose  varied  types  of  inhabitants 
understand  life  to  a  finesse.  About  life  you  can 
tell  them  nothing;  about  love  and  the  pursuit 
of  romance,  naught.  They  are  experts  in 
economy  and  are  content  with  what  they  have. 
Camaraderie  and  la  vie  Boheme  does  not  exist 
elsewhere  with  quite  the  same  freedom  and 
understanding,  and  it  is  just  this  understanding 
which  makes  the  charm.  As  I  have  said  before, 
you  can  explain  nothing  to  a  Parisian  about  his 
Paris. 

Paris  gay!  Paris  in  a  whirl?  Paris,  my 
friend,  is  never  in  a  whirl.  They  take  life 
slowly,  philosophically,  economically;  they 
understand  to  a  sou  what  can  be  had  in  life. 


390    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

If  you  would  have  an  opinion  of  the  rich,  ask 
the  poor.  Ask  any  Parisian  or  Parisienne  about 
anything  Parisian  —  love,  social  life,  intrigue, 
politics,  the  latest  scandal  concerning  madame 
and  monsieur,  their  infants,  their  cats,  their 
dogs,  their  streets,  their  homes,  their  ambitions, 
or  a  discription  of  any  type  from  a  duchess  to  a 
brat  in  the  street  —  they  will  tell  you  clearly,  con- 
cisely, with  the  keen  observance  of  one  who 
knows,  as  well  as  a  detective  knows  a  criminal, 
or  a  priest  a  parishioner,  or  an  apple  woman  an 
apple  —  nothing  is  new  to  the  Parisian  and  no 
one  bothers  their  heads  about  other  people's 
affairs.  Ask  the  man  who  sweeps  the  street, 
ask  the  depute,  or  the  beggar;  ask  the  cocotte, 
the  financier,  the  gamin,  the  aged  widow  or 
Mimi,  who  is  fading  her  nervous  youth  in  the 
cafes  and  bars  of  Montmartre.  Ask  the  model, 
the  politician,  the  ragpicker,  or  the  duke.  Bah! 
do  you  suppose  there  is  any  mystery  about  any 
one,  anywhere  in  Paris,  to  them?  You  will  be 
surprised  how  they  hit  the  nail  on  the  head. 
How  with  a  shrug  and  a  few  words,  they  tell 
you  just  the  type  he  or  she  is,  and  how  they  live, 


"THE  REFUGEES"  391 

and  how  much  they  spend,  and  what  they  eat, 
and  drink,  the  amount  of  their  income,  and  the 
prospects  of  marriage  of  their  daughters.  Why, 
these  are  things  even  Madame  Dupuy,  my  con- 
cierge in  the  Rue  des  Deux  Amis,  knows,  and 
Madame  Dupuy  rarely  leaves  her  loge. 

Only  when  you  have  spent  a  score  of  years 
among  all  classes  of  Parisians  will  you  appre- 
ciate the  French  heart;  their  honesty,  their  in- 
born politeness  and  kindness.  It  is  not  at  all 
surprising  —  are  you  not  one  of  them?  And  if 
you  are  not,  there  are  few  races  whose  patience 
in  explaining  can  match  the  Parisian's.  No- 
where exists  such  well  greased  democracy  on  the 
street.  The  Parisian  has  no  use  for  the  snob  — 
—  speak  the  truth  to  them  —  they  will  go  to 
infinite  pains  to  help  you.  Discretion  with  them 
is  a  fine  art.  That  is  why  love  is  a  prime  factor 
in  their  civilization,  since  without  discretion 
Tamour  cannot  live.  Moreover,  the  whole 
Parisian  mind  is  bent  on  living  to  the  utmost 
within  their  means. 

In  these  score  of  years  I  mention  I  can  truth- 
fully say  I  have  never  been  robbed,  not  even 


392    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

at  the  outset,  when  I  could  not  speak  their  lan- 
guage, and  they  were  obliged  to  take  much  pains 
to  explain.  All  they  asked  in  exchange  was 
politeness,  a  raised  hat,  and  those  three  magic 
words,  Monsieur,  Madame,  or  Mademoiselle, 
will  open  the  heart  of  any  Parisian,  whether  it 
be  a  demi-mondaine  or  a  crusty  old  Croesus 
whose  personal  fortune  has  made  him  conspicu- 
ous. 

Let  me  drop  the  curtain  upon  this  well  under- 
stood Parisian  life  and  its  Bohemia,  for  is  it 
not  the  unexpected  which  always  happens? 
Are  we  not,  I  say,  often  wrenched  from  Paradise 
and  driven  out  across  winter  seas  to  the  seat  of 
war? 

The  beginning  of  my  second  exile  this  year 
came  in  the  form  of  an  imperative  cable,  and 
there  was  nothing  left  for  me  to  do  but  pack  my 
trunk  and  sail.  A  final  handshake  in  the  cafe 
in  the  Rue  des  Deux  Amis;  another  to  Madame 
Dupuy,  a  word  to  the  cocher  and  then  the  cheer- 
less Gare  du  Nord,  the  waiting  train  and  those 
brave  little  words  of  Marie: 

"You  must  not  be  sad.     It  is  better  that  you 


"THE  REFUGEES"  393 

go,  it  is  your  duty.  Eh,  bien!  be  happy,  accom- 
plish your  work  and  come  back  soon. 
Tu  sais  que  je  t'aime  —  alors!"  And  thus  the 
train  slipped  away  from  those  faithful  black 
eyes,  for  I  stood  leaning  out  of  the  window  to 
gaze  into  them  as  long  as  I  could,  until  all  that 
remained  of  her  brave  self  was  the  fluttering 
speck  of  a  handkerchief.  Ah,  mon  Dieu!  It  is 
not  very  gay,  the  life  —  at  times.  Enfin! 
Boulogne,  the  plunge  and  roll  of  the  big  ship, 
the  heave  and  the  creaking  woodwork  for  days. 
Enfin!  the  banks  of  Newfoundland,  Sandy  Hook, 
the  grim,  welcoming  lady  with  the  torch  and 
the  draughty  dock  at  Hoboken.  Step  lively,  gents 
and  ladies,  if  you  would  follow  me  to  the  end  of 
the  adventure. 

"Here,  Jack,  this  man  wants  his  trunk  up- 
town." 

"Thank  you,"  I  said. 

"Fifty  cents,"  he  barked,  as  if  I  had  stepped 
on  his  toe. 

An  hour  later  I  had  entered  the  Bohemia  of 
New  York.  Yes,  the  studio  would  do.  It  was 
a  small  box  with  a  skylight  on  a  fifth  floor,  situ- 


394    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

ated  between  the  roar  of  the  Elevated  and  a 
spacious  park  with  sparrows,  and  sparrow  cops, 
and  a  mammoth  icicle  of  a  tower  whose  clock 
convinced  you  hourly  that  time  was  money. 

Now  the  house  itself  had  once  been  a  private 
dwelling  and  had  undergone  a  real  estate  opera- 
tion. It  was  as  hot  as  a  laundry  on  the  first 
floor,  where  they  kept  the  gas  burning  fanned  by 
the  steam  heat,  and  as  cold  as  a  refrigerator  by 
the  time  you  reached  the  top.  There  was, 
moreover  a  coloured  janitor  —  Sam  —  and  when 
the  elevator  he  ran  reached  the  top  floor, 
its  door  generally  fell  out  against  my  own.  It 
was  a  cheap  elevator  and  would  have  made  a 
better  success  as  a  dumbwaiter.  And  every- 
where, down  the  narrow  corridors  and  through 
the  thin  walls,  echoed  the  brisk  tap!  tap!  tap  of 
the  typewriter  and  the  rattle  of  light  artillery 
in  the  steam  radiators.  One  of  these  gilded 
disturbers  of  the  peace  stood  in  the  corner  of 
the  box  I  had  rented  with  the  skylight.  This 
small,  square  room,  empty  as  a  glass,  save  for  a 
stationery  wash  basin  which  kept  the  radiator 
company,  was  separated  from  its  connecting 


"THE  KEFUGEES"  395 

mate  by  a  thin  door  back  of  which  a  gentleman 
from  Upper  Silesia  dyed  ostrich  plumes  and  sold 
hair  dye  by  the  bottle.  His  typewriter  was 
young  and  lived  with  her  folks. 

Thus  you  may  readily  understand  the  intense 
artistic  atmosphere  that  permeated  the  house 
from  the  first  floor  tailor  to  the  second  floor 
blond  manicure,  whose  lair  contained  the  flags 
of  all  universities  and  who  left  her  door  ajar,  to 
the  Blue  Diamond  Embalming  Corporation  at 
the  end  of  her  hall,  and  so  on  up  past  the  glass- 
panelled  door  of  the  sheet  music  man,  the  theat- 
rical agency  and  the  room  of  the  two  old  maids 
who  painted  teacups.  Up,  up,  past  the  re- 
spective boxes  of  the  comic  illustrator,  a  banjo 
professor,  a  painter,  and  a  slow,  heavy-treaded 
man  with  a  dominating  voice  and  a  gold  mine  to 
sell.  He  too  had  a  typewriter,  which  he  worked 
himself,  and  a  box  of  cheap  cigars  to  hand 
around  to  those  whom  he  interested  in  the  safest 
gold  stock  this  side  of  the  Rockies. 

As  early  as  nine,  various  individuals  rapped 
at  my  ribbed-glass  door  —  stray  vagabonds 
with  subscription  editions,  old  women  with 


396    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

wandering  minds  and  vague  inquiries,  and  the 
subscription  edition  well  hidden  under  their 
preliminary  talk  and  a  bedraggled  cape,  and  as 
it  was  supposed  to  be  a  real  studio  building 
there  was,  of  course,  the  model. 

Ah!  Sacristi!  the  model!  The  models  were 
privileged  and  went  bumping  up  in  the  rattle- 
trap of  an  elevator  under  Sam's  smile  and  gui- 
dance. 

"  Yas,  ma'am — step  right  in — fifth  flo'.  Lem- 
me  see.  You  is  inquirin'  fo'  de  gemman  artist? 
Yas,  dat's  right,  fifth  flo'."  But  even  her  rap 
was  different  from  the  gentle  tap  of  a  good  com- 
rade at  my  studio  door  in  the  Rue  des  Deux 
Amis.  It  was  sharp  and  insistent,  as  if  she  had 
found  at  last  the  man  she  had  been  hunting  for 
with  a  gun,  and  when  I  opened  my  door  to  this 
chorus  girl  fresh  from  a  burlesque  company 
stranded  on  the  road,  and  she  eyed  me  shrewdly 
beneath  her  blond  wig  and  asked  in  her  rasping 
voice.  "Do  youse  want  a  model?"  I  was 
again  convinced  of  the  absence  of  charm  in  my 
new  found  Bohemia. 

Ah,  yes!    They  were  of  varied  types,  these 


"THE  REFUGEES"  397 

"models"  -  tall  and  thin,  short  and  fat,  blonde, 
brunette  and  peroxide  —  all  models,  they  told 
me,  and  much  of  their  strenuous  lives  they  told 
me  too,  and  they  had  all  posed  for  celebrities  in 
art  whose  names  and  addresses  most  of  them  had 
gleaned  from  the  Sunday  editions;  and  they  con- 
fessed to  being  a  model  with  a  naughty  twinkle 
in  their  hard,  alert  eyes,  much  as  if  they  would 
have  confided  to  me: 

"I'm  the  niece  of  Satan,  and  if  my  uncle  knew 
I  was  posen'  —  well!" 

"Sit  down,"  I  said  to  the  chorus  girl  who  had 
rapped  and  entered,  "and  have  a  cigarette." 

"Gee,  it's  cold  here!"  she  began.  "Say, 
listen  - 

"I'll  turn  on  the  steam,"  I  suggested. 

"Say,  you're  all  right,  I  like  you,"  she  an- 
swered bluntly. 

"Ah!  —  what  luck!  How  was  the  show,  I 
mean?" 

"A  dead  one  —  that's  right.  Say,  listen.  I 
was  with  Big  May's  Dainties  as  fur  as  Schenec- 
tady.  Say,  listen.  What  kind  er  art  work  do 
you  do,  dearie?  I  had  a  swell  feller  once  and 


398    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

he  done  some  lovely  crayon  portraits  —  you 
know,  them  crayon  portraits?  Was  you  ever 
to  MacQuire's?  Take  me  out,  kid,  some  night, 
will  you?  And,  say,  let's  go  to  MacQuire's. 
He's  got  a  grand  table  d'hote.  Take  me  down 
to  Coney  Isle,"  she  quavered  into  song  — "/ 
-  want  a  girl  —  just  like  the  girl  —  that  mar- 
ried dear  old  Dad." 

There  were  some  serious  models,  I  confess, 
models  with  a  definite  purpose  in  life,  but  I  re- 
frain from  entering  into  a  detailed  description 
of  these  ladies,  whose  ambition  in  art  seemed  to 
be  to  find  a  gold  miner  or  a  lonely  widower  with 
more  money  than  he  could  spend.  There  were 
some  even  more  serious  than  these.  It  was 
amazing  to  me  how  serious  they  were.  These 
vestals  of  beauty  and  line  lived,  I  was  told,  in  a 
sort  of  seminary  and  were  only  allowed  out  alone 
in  Bohemia  during  the  day  to  pose  under  the 
rules. 

And  so  the  days  of  my  exile  slipped  by,  one  by 
one,  and  my  neighbour,  the  comic  artist,  and  I 
grew  to  be  good  friends,  though  he  seldom  smiled, 
and  I  can  hear  his  solemn  tread  now  coming 


"THE  REFUGEES"  399 

down  the  corridor  to  borrow  a  match,  and  when 
we  were  out  of  matches  we  kept  the  hall  gas 
jet  burning.  Had  he  not  lived,  this  bon  garcon 
in  Paris  for  many  years,  in  Montmartre,  in  fact, 
and  knew  my  own  Rue  des  Deux  Amis  as  well 
as  he  did  his  pocket? 

Poor  Remson!  He  was  no  longer  a  Mont- 
martrois  but  a  suburbanite  with  a  commuter's 
ticket  and  a  fixed  salary  to  supply  humour  by 
the  year. 

When  it  grew  dark,  Remson  and  I  would  lock 
up  and  go  down  to  the  basement  cafe  next  door, 
upon  whose  second  floor  they  served  as  early  as 
three-thirty,  for  tea  —  Italian  cocktails  to  the 
accompaniment  of  a  thin  fiddle  and  a  weak  harp 
-  but  to  the  cafe  came  the  painters.  Tall  were 
the  schooners  topped  with  foam,  and  caustic 
was  the  talk  on  art,  for  most  of  them  had  lived 
in  Paris  and  were  now,  like  Remson,  in  the 
strenuous  life.  Indeed  the  only  one  who  seemed 
to  be  able  to  express  a  calm  opinion  was  Nick, 
the  bartender,  who  had  once  been  a  barker  for  a 
living  picture  show  and  knew  art  when  he  saw 
it. 


400    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

I  know  not  why  Chance  cast  me  into  this 
saw-dusted  dungeon  daily  at  five,  save  that  it 
was  next  door,  and  warm.  The  artistic  atmos- 
phere within  was  as  hard  as  an  elevated  rail- 
road. The  step  from  it  led  to  the  street,  a 
ravine  draughty  as  a  canon  where  an  ill  wind 
always  blew,  and  somehow  the  hands  on  the 
clock  on  the  icicle  tower  as  you  left,  always  beck- 
oned toward  Broadway. 

Poor  Remson!  He  had  known  Paradise, 
this  good  comrade,  and  when,  as  we  often  did, 
sit  smoking  in  the  winter  twilight  in  his  studio 
or  mine,  he  told  me  much  of  his  old  days;  of  his 
two  years  at  Julian's,  of  the  balls,  of  his  fa- 
vourite cafe  in  the  Rue  Fontaine,  of  his  comfort- 
able old  studio  in  the  Rue  Navarin,  of  friends 
and  memories,  and  he  spoke  of  Her  with  a  cer- 
tain reverence;  of  the  days  and  weeks  when  he 
lay  ill  and  she  nursed  him,  of  the  day  he  bought 
Her  the  parasol,  of  the  lazy  summer  days  when 
they  used  to  take  the  swift  little  steamer  for  a 
few  sous  to  St.  Cloud,  where  they  lay  all  day  in 
the  forest  and  ate  the  good  lunch  they  had 
brought  with  them.  How  he  had  taught  Her  to 


"THE  REFUGEES"  401 

draw  and  paint  a  little;  how  she  had  encouraged 
him  in  his  work;  of  her  pride  in  his  first  suc- 
cesses, of  her  content,  of  her  economy.  Then 
he,  too,  was  summoned  into  exile. 

"But  you'll  go  back,  old  boy,  some  day,"  I 
said. 

"Allans!  un  pen  de  courage,  mon  vieux." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  there  crept 
into  his  calm  melancholy  features  a  resigned 
smile. 

"I  must  stick  to  the  job,"  said  he.  "I'm 
under  contract.  It's  no  joke,"  he  added  grimly, 
then  he  paused  and  gazed  absently  in  the  dusk 
at  the  glowing  end  of  his  fat  Turkish  cigarette. 
"I  wonder  what  has  become  of  Annette?"  he 
said  simply. 

"Young  when  you  left?"  I  asked. 

"  Nineteen  —  a  little  over.  I  remember  her 
birthday.  It  was  the  last  day  we  went  to  St. 
Cloud."  He  looked  up  suddenly.  "A  week 
later  I  sailed." 

"Model?" 

"No.  Annette  worked  on  corsets  in  the  Rue 
Fontaine  —  for  a  woman.  Lord !  I  can't  re- 


402    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

member  her  name.  Hold  on !  Dupon  -  -  Du- 
bois-  -" 

"Stop!"  I  interrupted.  "Dutois —  Jeanne 
Dutois?" 

"By  George,  that's  it!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Jeanne  Dutois." 

"Tall  —  blonde  —  little  shop  next  to  the 
butcher's?"  I  ventured. 

"Well,  say  —  why,  yes  —  little  shop  next  to 
the  butcher's,  between  the  butcher's  and  the 
grocery.  How  the  devil  • — 

"I  pass  it  daily,"  I  said.  "I  remember  it 
because  I  often  glance  within,  simply  because 
there  is  a  trim  little  person  within  who  is 
worth  glancing  at.  She's  generally  sewing  next 
to  the  window.  I've  never  seen  such  a  pair  of 
brown  eyes  or  such  a  pure  little  profile,  half 
Italian. 

"Half  Italian!"  exclaimed  Remson,  "and- 
and  brown  eyesf" 

He  shot  forward  in  his  chair  and  gripped  me 
by  the  shoulders. 

"Did  you  notice  her  hands?"  he  asked  ex- 
citedly. 


"THE  REFUGEES"  403 

"Yes,  I  did.  They  were  the  first  things  that 
attracted  my  attention. 

"Small?" 

"Like  a  child's,  and  beautifully  modelled." 

Remson  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  hands  thrust 
in  his  pockets.  For  some  moments  he  paced 
the  floor  in  silence,  then  he  turned  and  faced  me. 
"I've  got  enough  of  this!"  Remson  cried. 
"Enough,  do  you  hear?  By  God!  I've  got 
enough.  I'm  going  back." 

"There  is  not  a  shadow  of  a  doubt  you  think 
that  it  was  Annette  I  saw?" 

His  whole  face  became  radiant. 

"And  she's  still  there  —  she's  still  there,"  he 
mused;  "and  I  thought  —  well,  you  know  I 
thought  I  should  never  see  her  again  —  and 
she's  still  there.  Bless  her  little  heart.  See 
here,"  he  declared,  "I'm  going  back.  You've 
got  to  come  too;  we'll  go  back  together."  He 
stood  there  in  the  dusk  trembling  with  excite- 
ment. "I've  got  enough  now  in  the  bank,"  he 
continued,  "and  I'll  make  the  rest  when  it's 
gone,  just  as  we  always  did.  Say  you'll  go. 
Haven't  you  got  enough  of  this?" 


404    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

"  Done ! "  said  I.     "  But  your  contract  ?  " 

"I'll  fix  that,"  he  broke  out  savagely,  "any- 
way they  like,  but  I'll  fix  it.  Don't  you  worry 
-  they'll  forget  me  and  anything  I  ever  did  for 
'em  in  forty -eight  hours." 

He  sprang  for  the  door,  opened  it,  crossed  the 
narrow  corridor  and  kept  his  thumb  on  the  eleva- 
tor button  until  I  heard  Sam  bawling  up  the  shaft : 

"Comin',  sah,  comin'!" 

"Go  down,"  commanded  Remson  to  that 
grinning  servitor,  "and  tell  Nick  to  send  up  a 
bottle  of  Extra  Dry." 

"Yas,  sah." 

"And  Sam-    -" 

"Yas,  sah!" 

:'You  can  tell  the  agent  of  this  superb  prop- 
erty to  hang  out  a  neatly  painted  sign  to- 
morrow—  'Two  studios  to  let,  steam  heat, 
running  water,  and  electric  light." 

Nine  days  later  the  Noordam  dropped  anchor 
in  the  golden  mist  off  Boulogne  and  the  small 
iron  door  in  her  side  opened  to  receive  the  gang- 
plank of  her  tender. 


"THE  REFUGEES"  405 

There  were  two  telegrams  handed  to  Remson 
and  myself.  Remson's  came  straight  from  the 
heart  of  a  little  Parisienne  who  sits  as  she  sews 
close  to  the  window  of  a  little  shop  in  the  Rue 
Fontaine.  Its  contents  are  not  for  you;  it  was 
strictly  for  Remson. 

Mine?  Oh,  mine  you  shall  read.  It  ran  as 
follows,  this  blue  strip: 

"Welcome!  Dinner  waiting  at  Vautrin's!" 
Ah,  non!  why  not  give  it  in  its  original : 

"Amities!    Poingez  de   main  —  mille  baisers 
-  diner  ce  soir  chez  Vautrin"  and  was  signed. 

"MARIE." 


Old  friends,  old  loves,  old  memories,  in  the 
land  we  live  in  called  Bohemia,  where  the  heart 


406    THE  STREET  OF  THE  TWO  FRIENDS 

never  grows  old.     The  nest  beneath  the  roofs 

-  work,  and  the  trim  step  upon  the  stairs  - 
silence  —  and  the  friendly  knock. 

"Bonjour!" 

"Tienst  —  c'esttoi?" 

And  so  I  settle  down  to  my  old  life  once  more, 
in  the  Street  of  the  Two  Friends. 


THE   END. 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GAEDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  828  401     o 


